


Fugue Feast, 1817

by deckboss



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Bondage, Fluff, Fugue Feast (Dishonored), M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Recreational Drug Use, general fugue feast debauchery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26465860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deckboss/pseuds/deckboss
Summary: Twenty years before they were fellow Loyalists, they were just two men sharing the simple pleasures of Fugue Feast, unaware that they were carving a path that the rest of their lives would follow.
Relationships: Farley Havelock/Teague Martin
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a story I've been wanting to write for almost seven years at this point. Never-ending quarantine seems like a good enough reason to actually get it done. Huge thank you to my husband (who edited this AND has been coming up with Martin/Havelock headcanon with me since 2012 oh my god) and to my pals in the discord who beta-read this and sent me tons of encouragement!! I have never written anything more than a few pages long, so I'm happy to have this thing finished! I'll post new chapters Mondays and Thursdays until it's all up.
> 
> Apologies in advance for warping some established canon to suit my mood. Havelock is shorter than Martin in canon? Sorry, I can't accept that. Nor can I accept Fugue Feast only being 'a day or two' long. Actually, the two of them knowing each other for 20 years before the conspiracy is almost certainly teetering into AU territory too, but... Who cares.

It was still a few minutes early, but the streets of Dunwall were starting to crowd in anticipation of midnight. The vast majority of the businesses in the downtown area were already boarded up and shut down in preparation for the chaos that was about to befall the city, as they did every year. Now, as midnight approached, even the bars were beginning to close, forcing their patrons out into the street in hopes of mitigating potential property damage.

New Year. Fugue Feast. A time outside of time, where the common rules of the world were done away with for a brief period before the new calendar year started. 

Martin had never experienced the Fugue Feast in Dunwall. He’d heard that it was a much more…intense affair in Gristol than it had ever been in Morley, and Martin wondered if the Abbey being based there had something to do with it. Those watched the closest were the most ready to sin when given the chance, after all. He supposed he’d find out tonight, as he slid through the growing throngs of nervously excited Dunwallers.

He had been walking for quite a while, wanting to make good headway to his destination before the streets filled to bursting. Down beyond the Distillery District, near Kaldwin’s Bridge, was the bar Martin was looking for. The Hunter’s Bend. A dive frequented mainly by whalers, sailors, dockworkers and Navy men. Also supposedly where he was likely to find one Navy man in particular that night, according to his various sources around Dunwall. 

Martin had left straight from the Abbey as soon as he'd completed his duties, and was still dressed in most of his Overseer uniform, though he’d ditched the mask, obviously, as well as the wool jacket and leather gloves. Seeing so many Dunwallers in the streets wearing masks and face paint, however, made him wonder briefly if he’d make a mistake leaving his behind. The thought of wearing the heavy cowl and heavier mask seemed rather unappealing currently, as the night was pleasantly warm even at this late hour, with just the faintest breeze coming off the water. 

The Captain had only been _slightly_ difficult to track down, though Martin had his reasons for waiting until Fugue Feast before acting on his information.

He and the Captain had met months ago, on a miserable sea voyage from Morley to Gristol. The Captain was doing a favor for the High Overseer by bringing a group of low-ranking Overseers from an outpost in Wynnedown to the seat of the Abbey in Dunwall. Martin would have preferred to forget the entire trip. What time he didn’t spend hanging over the rail seasick, he spent trying to keep the group of overzealous young Overseers he was traveling with from committing a mutiny over some heretical items they’d discovered the sailors were keeping. 

But if there was one thing that made that wretched trek worth remembering, it was the Captain. Martin, keen to not die on that damned ship, immediately made himself invaluable to the Captain by becoming his eyes and ears among the plotting Overseers. While Martin had initially allied with him for no reason other than to keep himself alive, the more they worked together, the more interesting the Captain became.

Not only was the Captain tall and built like he’d been carved from stone, he had a strangely charming (if not particularly handsome) face. His peculiar sense of humor coupled with his serious and blunt personality intrigued Martin, and he lamented not having had the opportunity to spend more personal time with him on the Morgengaard. They’d spent far too much time on that trip tamping down a mutiny and far too little time getting to know one another.

Overseer Martin was lost in thought, now, thinking back on the way the Captain’s jacket strained over his chest and shoulders, the way his belt accentuated his wonderfully narrow waist, his boots perfectly outlining the massive curve of his calves. Ruddy cheeks and sunburnt neck, the shadow of facial hair that even daily shaving couldn’t rid him of. 

He was older than Martin, likely in his late thirties, though his time on the sea and in the sun had prematurely lined his face. And it was a scarred one, from the bridge of his nose to the corner of his mouth. Martin still wished he’d been able to ask— 

A loud toll of bells roused Martin from his thoughts. Midnight. The whooping and hollering from the crowd very nearly drowned them out, and chaos broke out almost immediately. Within moments, liquor and drugs were practically flowing freely on the street. Martin found himself immediately pinned in by the wildly celebratory crowd, and was frantically looking for a means of escape, pushing through the crush of bodies as best as he could. 

He jolted when someone grabbed him by the collar of his vestments and gave him a shake, stopping him dead in his tracks. A stranger, and one who was already drunk at that.

“Overseer!” The man laughed loudly in Martin’s face, shaking him again, “Overseer, just what do you think you can do now? The Outsider walks with all of us tonight! He walks with us!”

Martin cringed at not only the smell of his assailant’s breath, but at the drops of spit his invective sputtered onto Martin’s face. Instinctively and with practiced precision, Martin lifted a fist and struck the drunk in the throat, sending him to his knees gasping and gagging, giving Martin the brief respite he needed to escape the thickest part of the crowd. Those closest to the scuffle only laughed and cheered in his wake. Such fights must have been commonplace during the Feast to stir so little concern. Martin looked down at his uniform as he hurried away from the scene, suddenly wishing he’d taken a moment to change before he’d left the Abbey. He honestly hadn’t even thought about potential hostility toward Abbeymen by the rowdy crowds, having not experienced a Fugue Feast like this before. 

Slightly shaken but undeterred, Martin moved into the side streets and alleys, which were still busy with foot traffic but not unbearably so. Fireworks were popping overhead, giving Martin flashes of light to navigate some of the darker back streets. He did his best to not gawk at the number of couples he stumbled across in various states of passion in the relative privacy of the alleys. These Dunwallers didn’t hesitate once the Feast started, clearly.

About thirty minutes after the Feast started, Martin reached the Hunter's Bend, and finally felt some pang of trepidation. How irritating it would be to have walked all this way, only to find that the Captain wasn’t there. But his intel was good, supposedly. A dock worker who spent many a night at the Hunter’s Bend had told Martin that the Captain drank there regularly, even during Fugue Feast, since it was one of few bars that braced for the chaos and stayed open during the holiday. He had done so for the past few years, to the point that it was a bit of a running joke; that the Captain was so serious that even Fugue Feast couldn’t stir any passion in him. Martin hoped it was a joke, at least.

It was quieter down by the riverside, the crowds mainly sticking to the center of town, and Martin noted that there were no sounds of chaos erupting from inside the Hunter’s Bend. He peered into the windows as he passed, but the light inside was low and the windows were stained with soot from years of cigarette and cigar smoke, obviously left uncleaned. All he could make out were the vague shadows of the patrons inside.

When he pushed the door open, he found a surprisingly sedate crowd, murmuring over pints in low light. He again wished he had changed into civilian clothes as the conversation died down slightly, a handful of faces turning to scrutinize him. Knowing the bar’s typical crowd, it might have been the first time an Overseer had ever walked in the door, and knowing the barely restrained tension between sailors and Overseers at large only made him feel more conspicuous. He felt an uncomfortable prickly heat rising in his cheeks, feeling foolish for not having considered it before. Over the last few years, he had become accustomed to a certain amount of respect from the everyman that came with being an Overseer. Fugue Feast suddenly made him an equal, and these men didn’t seem concerned with him being able to sense their hostility.

Thankfully the crowd returned to their drinks and conversations after only a few more agonizing moments. Martin blew out a sigh and tried to melt into the shadows so he could scan the crowd. 

It was a considerably difficult task to pick the Captain from the other patrons. The vast majority of them were of the same massive, rugged build as the Captain, half-hidden in barely adequate lamp light. Just as he was beginning to fear that this had indeed been a wasted trip, he spied a silhouette more familiar than the rest. He was sitting at the bar, smoking a cigarette and having a casual conversation with the bartender, who seemed barely invested in the chat as he wiped down glasses. Martin noticed his blond hair, starting to go gray, and could just make out the deep scar on the side of the Captain’s face in the low light. Even dressed down and out of uniform, Martin recognized the impressive width of his back. His threadbare undershirt was liable to burst at the seams under the stress of the Captain’s muscle.

Had to be him. Martin straightened his collar and ran a hand through his hair, then crossed the room and stepped up to the bar.

The bartender noticed him first and gave him a barely perceptible nod. The Captain noticed a moment later, and glanced at Martin briefly over his shoulder, before double-taking to look at him properly. Martin thought the Captain looked momentarily shocked, before he shook the expression from his face.

“...Martin!” The Captain exclaimed, with a laugh. He held out a massive, meaty hand for Martin to shake. The Overseer attempted to smile politely as the man’s grip crushed his slender hand, and shook it too vigorously. The Captain’s other hand clapped firmly on Martin’s shoulder, cigarette still dangling between his fingers as he did so.

“Captain,” Martin said, barely managing to not sound agonized. 

The Captain sucked his teeth, releasing Martin from his bone-crushing grip.

“It’s Fugue Feast, Martin. Please, call me Havelock. Drink?” Havelock gestured at the open barstool next to him. 

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, then, Havelock,” Martin said as he took his seat, wondering how many sheets to the wind the Captain already was. He seemed in a conspicuously chipper mood, though Martin admittedly didn’t know him that well outside of the tense situation on the trip from Wynnedown. 

Havelock gestured to the bartender for two more drinks after finishing the last sip of the one he had currently sitting in front of him.

“By the Void, it’s good to see you! I could have never guessed you’d walk in here tonight, Martin,” Havelock said, dropping the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray, “What even brings you here? Didn’t think anyone but whalers and officers knew this place existed.”

Martin shrugged, propping his elbow on the bar and resting his cheek in his hand. 

“I thought I might find you. I heard you liked to drink here, and I don't know many people in town yet other than uptight Overseers,” Martin said, very purposefully making it sound like a more-or-less chance meeting, when it most certainly was not. He picked up his whisky as it was set in front of him, prepared to try and catch up with Havelock.

Havelock nodded, picking up his own drink, “Well, shit, I’m glad you did. Though next time you might want to ditch the church look."

Havelock gestured broadly at Martin, smirking.

“Trust me, that’s well noted,” Martin grunted, taking a drink.

There was a brief lull as Havelock sipped his drink. His lined face took on a thoughtful look, as thoughtful as Martin presumed he might be capable.

“Since you're here... I'd like to thank you for your help on the Morgengaard,” Havelock said eventually, quietly, glancing over at Martin, “It could have been a real mess without you. The type of mess that ends careers.”

Martin waved a hand, happy to let that topic of conversation die before it even started.

“Please. _Don’t_ mention it. I was happy to help.”

Havelock laughed, politely taking the point and letting it drop.

“Of course. How have you been settling in Dunwall? The Abbey?” Havelock reached for his cigarette case, drawing two out from it. He offered one to Martin, who happily took it. Havelock struck a match and lit his, then held the flame out for Martin. “It must be a big change from Wynnedown.”

“It’s a change of pace, certainly.”

He sighed a cloud of smoke, twiddling his cigarette in his fingers.

"I’ve never lived in such a large city, I feel like I’ve traveled into the future sometimes. Everything here is so… Modern. And compared to the outpost, the Abbey seems like a city in itself. There’s always something that needs done. I’ve definitely learned more than I wanted to know about the evils of Restless Hands.”

“I can only imagine,” Havelock said dryly, clearly not wanting to imagine it at all. “Just what in the Void do they have you doing there all day?”

“Oh, well,” Martin sighed, rubbing his stubbly chin, “for right now, they mostly have me organizing and cataloguing heretical artifacts. Things that have been seized from heretics or washed up from the river. I get to determine whether they’re destroyed or require more research.” He winced. “And I hear the month after Fugue Feast is absolutely the worst for intake of heretical objects. We’ll have more crates of bones and books and bullshit than there is time to sort them.”

Havelock grinned into his drink. “Not surprised in the least, these people are heretics all year long. Fugue Feast just gives them the chance to really throw it in the Abbey’s face."

Martin already suspected that Havelock was not religious, which didn’t surprise him, or bother him for that matter. Martin was not particularly religious himself, in spite of the uniform. His life in Morley had not been easy, especially growing up during the Insurrection and the following famine. The stability the Abbey offered seemed like a fair trade-off for mostly pretending to buy into all their doom-mongering paranoia, and his keen ability to lie made it almost too easy to slide into their ranks as if he belonged there.

Three square meals a day, a bed to sleep in at night, a meager but tolerable weekly stipend, and plenty of time to sit in quiet meditation was more than he’d ever expected to have in his life. Not that he always meditated on what the Abbey may have preferred, but he was meditating nonetheless. 

Even the work he did was occasionally appealing. While most of the trash that came across his desk was poorly carved bones or useless potions made from revolting ingredients, there was the occasional exciting artifact. Spending an afternoon reading an extremely explicit journal retrieved from a coven “for research purposes” was not the worst way Martin had spent time in his life, nor was trying to come up with a tactful and Outsider-fearing way to describe an obscene sex toy for the Abbey’s catalogue.

“It sounds like intriguing work, at least,” Havelock said, “You must come across some… interesting items. Just what exactly keeps you from turning to heresy yourself after looking at heretical shit all day?”

Martin chuckled.

“Deep, mindful meditation,” He replied, sarcasm dripping.

Havelock snorted, a sound that might have been a laugh.

“ _Sure_. Well, at least the Abbey lets all us poor bastards have the Fugue Feast, huh? You can put all that research to good work. Just how many Strictures do you plan to break this year?”

Was that flirting or just Fugue Feast candor? He couldn’t say he knew Havelock well enough to decide. Their relationship on the Morgengaard had been more or less strictly business, though Martin was convinced there was some palpable _tension_ between the two of them, as best as he had tried to ignore it at the time.

Here, now, during Fugue Feast, Martin was quite prepared to find out if he had been correct in his assumption. 

“As many as I can. Maybe I can fit them all in if I really try.” 

Martin took a drag off his cigarette, smirking at Havelock’s face, which was deeply shadowed, his wrinkles and craggy features emphasized but also softened by the dim light of the bar.

Havelock’s eyebrows lifted, and again Martin felt like he could see the gears in his head turning. Tactical. Picking his next move.

“Well, let’s say we start with Rampant Hunger,” Havelock said, knocking on the bar to grab the attention of the barkeep, “And we’ll see where the night takes us.”


	2. 0200

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! Thanks again to my husband for editing and to my discord pals for their encouragement!!

By two in the morning, both Martin and Havelock were pleasantly drunk, swaying slightly on their barstools as they spoke in hushed tones.  As their conversation progressed, Martin had turned towards the Captain in his seat and leaned heavily against the bar, giving himself a better vantage to take in the full measure of the man beside him. He listened happily to each of Havelock's yarns, but was admittedly more interested in gazing at him, taking stock of this new version of the man he met five months ago. No longer a prim, rigid Navy man, Havelock seemed something more like the humble and shameless captain of a fishing boat. He was approachable, warm, and frankly, fascinating. Havelock turned as well, eventually, and they were face to face, oblivious to anyone else in the bar aside from the occasional interruption from the barkeep. Havelock kept his right foot on the floor, his left on the rung of his stool, and Martin boldly put his foot beside it, allowing his knee to lazily drift out to casually graze against Havelock's inner thigh.

Havelock kept taking opportunities to touch Martin’s arm or hand, or to lean in just a little too close to light a cigarette for him. Martin, in return, was taking opportunities to get Havelock to show him his tattoos, and was very nearly struck down off his barstool when Havelock pulled up his shirt with a hearty laugh to give Martin a glance at the huge tattoo across his chest. He barely even registered what it was a tattoo of, other than perhaps there was a whale and some words. He was thankful for the low light in the bar, because the sight set him blushing from collar to forehead. Martin’s mind was still firmly locked on the mental image of Havelock’s broad, inked chest long after, making it difficult to focus on what the Captain was talking about now.

“...Always was a little disappointed to never have made it to Pandyssia, though. I did get to see the coast, and receive a parting gift from some wretched creature we pulled up in a net.”

Havelock gestured to the scar on his face, looking slightly surly.

“What, like a fish?” Martin said, finding Havelock’s irritated face quite amusing, “You really didn’t get that scar in some dramatic sword fight with a pirate or a duel for honor?”

Havelock pursed his lips, looking unimpressed with Martin’s smug smirk.

“‘Like a fish’,” Havelock repeated, mocking Martin’s nasal tone, “No, not like a fish, other than it came out of the water, I suppose. I don’t know what the hell it was, but it was by far worse than any sword. I’d rather duel a hundred men before I ever got within striking range of one of those…things again.”

“Maybe you should be thanking that  _ thing _ ,” Martin said, a rather feline smile crossing his face as he casually swirled his whisky in his hand, “You look quite good with a scar.”

“Oh really?” Havelock’s surly look was finally swept away, replaced by a slightly predatory grin, “I hope you mean that. I have quite a few more I could show you.”

What Havelock clearly thought was a very good line was interrupted by a drunk stumbling up to the bar, bumping into him hard. Martin saw the Captain shoot him a look over his broad shoulder, but he didn’t move otherwise.

While they’d been locked in their intimate conversation for the last couple hours, the bar had started to fill slightly. Drunk revelers from the street were slowly filtering in for a place to sit and sober up a bit before going back out for more, or to simply sit somewhere a little quieter for some conversation. It still wasn’t as busy as it would have been on a typical night, but the crowd was a bit more rowdy than usual. The barkeep kept a tense eye on the patrons, wondering if ordering last call and closing the doors would make things better or worse.

“Get me a beer,” The drunk slurred at the bartender, slumping over the bar as if it was the only thing holding him up, which it likely was.

“Five coin,” The bartender said, hardly looking up.

“Five coin? It’s Fugue Feast. I ain’t payin’ for it.”

Although the rule of law was all but abolished during the Feast, there was (at least some) etiquette that the majority of Fugue Feast revelers abided by. Most businesses shuttered their doors for the entirety of the Feast, boarding up windows and removing any valuables from inside, particularly liquor, art, and coin. Many of the more wealthy residents of Dunwall abandoned the town all together, preferring the relative peace and safety of the countryside. Some businesses, though, remained open by choice for various reasons; the owners wanted to make money that couldn’t be taxed, they didn’t celebrate the Feast, they wanted to get away with selling heretical items that would get them hung the other 13 months of the year, or they simply wanted to remain at their business to protect their assets and might as well make money in the process.

The businesses that stayed open kept the city fed, drunk, and satisfied while running on a skeleton crew, and good etiquette demanded that you paid for your goods if you used their services.

The bartender cleared his throat, “A beer...is five coin. You want it here, you pay for it, or you can go drink the swill running down the gutter outside. Don’t tell me the city’s already run out of booze?”

The drunk reached over the bar to grab the bartender, but Havelock was faster, seeming to have been prepared for the situation to escalate as soon as the drunk had knocked into him. Martin’s eyebrows lifted.

“I wouldn’t do that, friend,” Havelock said, his huge hand firmly on the much smaller man’s shoulder to hold him back, “Fugue Feast or not, you pay at the Bend.”

The drunk swayed, sizing Havelock up. A sober man of his stature with any sense would have apologized and let it be. Instead, he squared up, yanking his shoulder from Havelock’s grip with some effort, and very nearly losing his balance in the process. At that, Havelock stood up, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders as he did so.

“Who are you, the fucking doorman, asshole?” The drunk slurred derisively, holding the bar with one hand to keep himself steady.

Even from behind, Martin could see that Havelock was spoiling for a fight, his huge hands immediately curling into tense fists.The Captain was poised, coiled, just waiting for the match to be struck to set off this powder keg. The bartender, wisely, had stepped away. Martin, foolishly, had not. He did stand up, though, if only to try to get a better view of what was certainly about to be a fight. Martin couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement at the prospect of seeing Havelock in action, even if it was just to knock down an obnoxious drunk. He could see the muscle bunching in Havelock's back through his thin shirt.

There was a long, tense pause, before the drunk made his move. He snatched a glass off the bar and hurled it at Havelock, who obviously saw the sloppy move coming from a mile away. He turned his shoulder and avoided it with ease, then stepped into a punch that knocked the drunk flat on his ass, out cold and immediately snoring, with no hope of standing back up any time soon. 

Martin, his view of the dust-up obscured by Havelock’s bulk, did not get the opportunity to dodge the glass, and it shattered when it crashed into his face. He stumbled backwards, grabbing the bar with one hand and his face with the other. 

“Voidfire!” Martin hollered behind his hand, feeling blood running down his palm and wrist. 

His head swam, and for a second he thought he might lose his balance. Of course, a fight he had no skin in, and he was the one bleeding. Seemed to be a running theme in his life. 

Havelock had taken the time to knock out another one of the drunk’s friends who tried to take a swing at him, and seemed to have deterred any of the others from pushing their luck. The pause in the chaos gave him the opportunity to take notice of Martin's situation.

“Oh fuck,” Havelock cursed, putting a hand to his forehead when he saw the blood on Martin's face, “What happened to you?! By the Void, man, I had my back turned for one second!” 

“That idiot,” Martin grunted, pulling his hand away from his face to examine the blood on his palm, “hit me with the glass he threw. Thanks for making sure to get out of the way of it, by the way, I really appreciate it.”

“Oh…damn it all,” Havelock said impatiently, digging into his pocket for enough coin to drop on the bar to cover the drinks, the damage, and the trouble. 

Everyone in the bar, the bartender included, was giving the two of them an unimpressed look, and Havelock seemed eager to gather Martin up and leave as quickly as they could.

“Come on,” he said, wrapping a hand around Martin’s upper arm, hurrying him to the door before anything else could happen. 

Martin stumbled along next to him, wiping at his chin to try to stop the blood from dripping onto his vestment undershirt. He was thankful when the bar door creaked open and he felt the cool night air rush over him. Between the booze and the slight daze of being hit in the face, he was having trouble thinking straight, and was thankful for Havelock’s steady arm holding him up. In spite of his addled brain, it didn’t slip his attention when Havelock’s hand moved from his arm to wrap around his waist instead.

“Where are we going?” Martin groaned, grabbing a handful of Havelock’s thin shirt.

“I have a flat, a few blocks from here. I can take a look at you there. We’re going to be hard-pressed to find a doctor who’s not drunker than us right now, but I’m sure I know enough first aid to deal with this.”

“Very reassuring,” Martin said flatly, “You know, if you wanted to get me back to your flat, you could have just asked. In fact, I think I may have preferred that.”

“Maybe next time. You need to learn to duck!"

“Sorry,” Martin said, “I can’t dodge what I can’t see, and unfortunately you made quite a good door but a terrible window.”

Havelock grunted, adjusting his grip on Martin’s waist as the Overseer stumbled on the uneven cobblestone. Martin’s shirt had gotten rucked up in the process, coming untucked from his pants. In spite of the throbbing pain in his face, he felt a pleasant warmth settle in his groin as Havelock’s calloused hand was suddenly on his bare hip. 

Martin made a strange noise at the touch. Havelock seemed oblivious.


	3. First Aid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for leaving this one where it ends :^)

Martin spent the rest of the walk obsessing over Havelock’s huge hand gripping his slender hip, which was a good distraction from basically everything else he was dealing with at the moment. He was mentally cursing Havelock for sticking his nose into a fight that didn’t have a damn thing to do with him, yet at the same time could barely think of anything beyond the other choice places he would love to have Havelock’s hands on him. 

“Here we are,” Havelock said, bringing Martin out of his daze. It was a three story apartment building, nearly identical to the ones on either side of it. New construction, by the looks of it. There was quite a bit of it going up near Kaldwin’s bridge. 

Indeed, here they were, exactly where Martin had wanted to end up this evening, irritatingly under entirely different circumstances than he’d hoped. 

The walk up to Havelock’s flat was frustrating, partially because he drunkenly stumbled on the steps and partially because Havelock’s hand left his hip so he could fish his key from his pocket. Of course, he had to live on the second story. Martin took the time to try to adjust his rumpled shirt, but stopped when he realized his hand was still bloody.

“Welcome in,” Havelock said, holding the door open for Martin. He closed the door behind them and blew out a sigh, “Go ahead and sit down at the table, I’ll get something to clean you up so I can take a look at you.” 

It was nearly pitch black in the flat aside from the faint blue glow of unlit oil lamps, but Havelock struck a match and lit one next to the door so Martin could see his way to the table. Havelock paused again to light a second lamp on the table, before promptly disappearing down the hall, leaving Martin to his own devices for the time being.

Martin did as he was told, slouching into a chair at Havelock’s small kitchen table. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be bleeding as much anymore, but he was worried he might have glass in his face, and the thought of Havelock trying to delicately pick it out did little to soothe his nerves. From what he could tell by touch, he had a gash on his chin, another on his cheek. There were a few smaller cuts scattered across the right side of his face, but they already seemed to have mostly stopped bleeding.

He took the opportunity to glance around Havelock’s flat, which seemed very modern and quite nice from what he could see in the low light. Nice enough to make Martin wonder if Havelock came from money or if the Navy paid better than he assumed it did. Perhaps both, though Havelock certainly didn’t strike him as nobility in the least. But a flat on the Wrenhaven waterfront couldn’t possibly be cheap…

Havelock reappeared with a basin of water balanced in one hand and an assortment of things tucked under his other arm, including a towel and a few smaller cloths. From a shelf on the way, he picked up a bottle of clear liquor. He set the basin and everything else down on the table, aside from the rather plush-looking towel that he settled over Martin’s shoulders like a bib to keep from soaking his clothes.

“Sorry it’s cold,” Havelock said, dipping a washcloth into the basin. He wrung it out just slightly. “Close your eyes.”

Martin did as he was told, and shivered as Havelock squeezed the cloth over his face, the bloody water running down onto the towel so that Havelock could get a better look at the damage without having to wipe his face with a rough cloth.

“Oh, it doesn’t look so bad,” Havelock murmured after a moment, now that some of the smeared blood had been washed away, “It must have just bled a lot because it’s your face.”

Martin, still with his eyes closed, heard the cloth drop back into the basin.

“I suppose that’s good to hear. No stitches needed, I hope?”

“Mm, I doubt it. You can open your eyes now,” Havelock murmured. Martin opened his eyes in time to see a smile quirking at the corners of Havelock's mouth. “But the good news is, I can stitch a wound if I need to. Not well, but I can.”

“By the Void, you’re just filling me with confidence tonight, Havelock.” 

Havelock chuckled, picking the basin and the liquor up from the table so he could set them to the side on the floor instead. Martin watched him curiously, before realizing that Havelock probably didn’t feel like stooping over him. The Captain was probably a foot taller than him, after all. They’d practically be the same height if Havelock knelt in front of him, which seemed to be his plan.

Havelock gave one of Martin’s knees a slap to encourage him to spread them so he could kneel between them. Martin couldn’t ignore, yet again, feeling a warm sensation rush over him as Havelock suddenly appeared between his legs. The Captain scooted closer, and Martin felt the color rise in his cheeks as Havelock’s narrow waist slotted in neatly between his knees. They were practically eye to eye at this like this, with Martin sitting just a bit higher. All Martin could think of was how he wished Havelock was sitting between his knees for _anything_ other than administering first aid. He felt a very pleasant ache in his groin as his legs settled against Havelock’s waist, perhaps a little tighter than they needed to.

“Could you bring the light closer?” Havelock said, wringing out the cloth again.

Martin pulled the lamp across the table, trying to think of anything but how uncomfortable his trousers were getting with Havelock so close. How close his face was. Close enough that he could smell the whisky and tobacco they’d been indulging in that evening. Close enough that even in the dim light, he could see the faint dusting of freckles across his sunburnt nose and forehead, the deep creases at the corners of his eyes, the strange shape of his nose that implied it had been broken in the past...

“Thank you,” Havelock said gruffly, before (surprisingly tenderly) beginning to clean Martin’s chin with the wet cloth, using his free hand to gently tip Martin’s face up. 

The touch was startlingly intimate, though Havelock seemed completely oblivious to that fact, while Martin felt like he was burning alive. He felt the lump in his throat brush past Havelock’s knuckles when he swallowed.

“Looks like there’s a bit of glass here,” Havelock said, reaching for the bottle of liquor next to him. He poured some out onto a clean cloth, and used it to wipe down a pair of tweezers he picked up off the table.

Martin winced as Havelock, much less tenderly than before, plucked a small piece of glass from his chin, which encouraged the bleeding to start again. 

“This’ll sting,” Havelock warned, before wiping Martin’s chin with alcohol. It did, in fact, sting, and Martin sucked a breath through his teeth, almost relieved for the flash of pain to distract him from everything happening below his belt.

Havelock repeated the same process for the other injuries on Martin’s face, checking for and removing any bits of glass, then cleaning them with alcohol. Once he was satisfied with his work, he picked up a tin of beeswax salve from the table and rubbed some into the worst of the cuts to cover the wounds and stop the bleeding.

“You got lucky,” Havelock said as he gently worked the wax into the cut on Martin’s chin, “Well, maybe not _lucky_ , but this could have been worse.”

The Captain glanced up, their eyes meeting for the first time since Havelock had started tending to him, his thumb still on Martin’s chin. The intimacy of the moment was killing Martin, and so was the silence. He wanted to kiss him, but the stern, completely unreadable expression on Havelock's face had Martin floundering. His cock throbbed impatiently in his pants.

“Thank you,” Martin said instead, desperate to break the silence. He pulled the towel off his shoulders, dropping it on the floor next to him. It was only making him sweat more at that point, and it gave him an excuse to put even an inch of space between the two of them before he lost his mind.

“I mean, not for letting some drunk hit me in the face, but. I appreciate everything after that.”

Havelock snorted, picking up one of Martin’s hands in his own. He took the cloth from the basin and went about rather tenderly cleaning the mostly dried blood off Martin’s hand. Martin blinked, watching with raised eyebrows. Clearly he could have done this himself, but Martin was perfectly content to allow Havelock to continue uninterrupted.

“I _am_ sorry for that, honestly,” Havelock said in his low rumble. “This really wasn’t how I hoped to get you to come home with me.”

Oh? Martin watched Havelock dutifully wash his hand, taking extra care in the creases and around his fingernails. He couldn’t remember a time in the last dozen years at least that someone had so…thoughtfully taken care of him. The juxtaposition of Havelock nearly breaking his hand in an authoritative handshake when they met at the bar earlier, to the gentle grip he held Martin’s hand in now was mind-bending. It was making him feel an emotion he couldn’t quite define. Martin swallowed hard.

“But you _did_ hope to get me to come home with you,” he said, trying to sound much more put together than he felt.

“Of course. As soon as I saw you at the bar tonight,” Havelock said, then laughed, “by the Void, as soon as I saw you on the Morgengaard five months ago! I’ve been thinking about you ever since. I wanted to get in touch with you, but…well, I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”

Havelock dropped the washcloth back in the basin, seemingly satisfied with his work, and dried his hands off, looking back up at Martin. Trying to read his expression?

Martin’s heart thumped in his chest. Oh, he felt the same. Very much so, in fact, that he was irritated that Havelock _hadn’t_ looked him up. The Captain literally could have walked up to the Abbey and asked for him! Meanwhile, Martin had to spend weeks talking to clueless Overseers and distrusting dock workers and Navy men for even the smallest crumb of info regarding Havelock’s habits on shore. 

“Well,” Martin said, his voice husky, “you’ve got me here now. _And_ , no offense,” he gestured at his face, “but you do owe me a much better apology for this.”

“I’m sorry, was tending to your wounds not enough?” Havelock said, sounding mockingly affronted, giving Martin’s thigh a squeeze. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Martin said, just barely holding back a giddy grin, “I appreciate it. But I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“So what can I do to get back in your good graces?”

“Well. You’re already on your knees between my legs," Martin said thoughtfully, his breath nearly hitching in his throat at his own drunken boldness. “...Suck my cock, and do it well. That _might_ be enough.”

Havelock tilted his head with a smirk, and took the order as well as any good Naval officer would. “By your leave.”


	4. A Toast, To Fugue Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your nice comments and kudos! Your reward is Martin making a fool of himself.

Havelock went straight to work unbuckling Martin’s belt, pulling it free so it wouldn’t get in the way. It was tossed to the side without a second thought. Now that he was likely paying more attention, Martin was sure Havelock could see his trousers straining over his erection.

“So just how long have you been sitting here with your dick hard?” Havelock asked with a smug smile, stroking Martin through the fabric.

Martin groaned, squeezing the armrests of the chair, desperate to be free from those damned pants. 

“Longer than I’d like to admit. Damned Voidfire, as soon as you got down on your knees…I was struggling to think of anything but fucking your mouth.”

“Tsk,” Havelock tugged Martin’s button fly open, and Martin lifted his hips enough for him to pull his pants and drawers down together, just enough to expose his cock, “all my charming bedside manner, wasted on you.”

Martin couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief as his cock was finally free, and almost painfully hard.

“Not wasted,” he puffed as Havelock spit into his hand and started to stroke. “Trust me, it was a good distraction.”

By the Outsider, Martin’s cock practically disappeared in Havelock’s massive hand, the head just barely peeking out with each downstroke. Martin moaned as he watched, that train of thought continuing on to its natural destination; just how big was Havelock? He could only imagine. In fact, he _was_ imagining. Vividly. If it matched the rest of his proportions…

“Fuck,” Martin gasped suddenly, grabbing Havelock’s wrist to stop him from stroking, “give me a second. I don’t want to—“

He was shocked at how suddenly he was right at the precipice _,_ an errant stroke from coming embarrassingly quickly. A substantial amount of precum dribbled down Havelock’s fingers as the Overseer struggled to keep himself from going over the edge. How embarrassing would that be? “ _Suck my cock, Havelock, and do a good job of it”,_ and then blow his load after a two minute handjob?

Havelock looked quite pleased with himself, letting Martin go before lifting his hand to his mouth. Martin could barely watch. His cock throbbed dangerously as Havelock looked him in the eyes while he licked his fingers clean of Martin’s precum. 

“They force you to be celibate in the Abbey or something, or do you just really take all that Wanton Flesh stuff seriously?”

“Shut up and give me a second,” Martin repeated impatiently, squeezing the base of his cock until the immediately impending threat of orgasm started to ebb away. 

Damn Havelock! He looked so fucking smug, leaning on his forearms on Martin’s knees, waiting patiently for permission to start again. Martin closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at his damnable face anymore.

“Alright,” Martin said after taking a couple of deep breaths, cracking his eyes back open, “okay.”

“Okay?” Havelock prompted. 

“Continue,” Martin said through practically gritted teeth, actively trying to convince himself that he could handle more. 

Havelock nodded, taking Martin’s cock in his hand again. He leaned forward, running his tongue up the tip before taking the head into his mouth. He sucked, mercifully gently after the scene from just a few moments ago. 

Martin shuddered, desperate for more pressure, to thrust in deeper, but positive he couldn’t take much more. If it didn’t feel so good, it’d be humiliating. Maybe he could blame the drink, but the truth was that it’d had been quite a long time since he’d been with a man like this, and Havelock was so exactly the sort of man he was attracted to that it was making focusing on anything else virtually impossible.

Martin peeled a hand from the armrest, letting it fall on Havelock’s head. His fingers twisted into Havelock’s blond hair, which was just starting to go gray at his temples and forehead.

At that encouragement, Havelock took Martin’s cock deeper, and deeper, until eventually his nose was pressing against Martin’s belly with each stroke. Martin groaned loudly, his grip on Havelock’s hair tightening. Martin could feel drops of Havelock's drool running down to his balls, and he couldn't help but thrust his hips to match Havelock's strokes, an impulse he immediately regretted.

“Oh! Havelock—” Martin gasped, using his grip on Havelock’s hair to pull the older man off, who looked slightly affronted at having his hair yanked. Martin desperately did not want to come yet, but he didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter anymore. There was a beat of strained silence as Martin, his face twisted up in despair, yet again tried to stop himself from coming. He failed.

“Fuck!”

Havelock blinked as a fat rope of cum landed on his face. Martin squirmed at the lack of stimulation and reached down to try to salvage his ruined orgasm. Havelock instead took it upon himself to help put him out of his misery, and took Martin’s cock into his mouth again to slowly stroke him and swallow every last drop of cum. Martin moaned pitifully as he felt the Captain’s throat working around him. His hand weakly slid from Havelock’s hair, hanging over the side of the chair.

Totally embarrassing. It felt amazing, but it was still totally embarrassing, which was really putting a damper on the _felt amazing_ part. Martin put a hand over his eyes and slumped back into the chair, feeling his cheeks burning with more than exertion. 

“That…was a poor display on my part,” He said quietly after a long silence once Havelock finished, peering down at him from between his fingers.

Havelock was wiping drool and cum from his mouth and face with the back of his hand, and still looked infuriatingly smug. 

“I’m a Navy man, I follow orders. ‘Suck my cock, and do it well’? What else did you expect from me? A piss-poor blowjob? Don’t feel embarrassed about it.”

Hmph. Martin took some time to collect himself and catch his breath before stuffing his traitorous cock back into his pants.

"Besides, it's Fugue Feast. The point," Havelock reached up to put the basin and the liquor back up on the table, "is to make a fool of yourself. And since we've both done that tonight, we can call it square."

Martin chuckled, dropping his hand from his face. The man had a point. Havelock put a hand on the table and hauled himself up, grunting as he did so. At first, Martin thought it was just from kneeling on the floor for so long, but noticed that he seemed to have trouble putting weight on his right leg in particular, and that he limped while he went to take the basin and other first aid items back to the restroom. Perhaps his leg was just asleep. By the time Havelock came back, the limp was mostly imperceptible.

Martin _also_ couldn’t help but notice the erection leaving a rather lewd impression in Havelock’s snug pants as he walked back into the flickering lamplight of the kitchen. It certainly did seem to be exactly what Martin had been fantasizing about only moments ago, and he was about to suggest returning the favor when Havelock brisked past him and started rooting around in a kitchen cabinet.

“Drink?” The Captain asked, though he didn’t wait for an answer before Martin heard the clinking of glass on the countertop.

“Please,” Martin replied, rubbing at his aching chin. 

Maybe Havelock just didn’t want to rush. Or perhaps he thought Martin needed a break before getting the opportunity to humiliate himself again. Which was true. He felt a sense of relief to get a brief respite before being faced with, if the strained fabric of Havelock’s trousers was any implication, what was probably going to be the biggest cock he’d ever seen, let alone interacted with. He wouldn’t even know what to do with it… And what if Havelock wanted to fuck him? He simply wasn’t prepared.

He blinked out of that thought as Havelock set two snifters down on the same side of the table, and a bottle of very fine looking brandy. He then pulled a chair around so he and Martin could sit face to face, much like they had been at the bar. It was Havelock's turn to casually rest a boot on the rung of Martin’s chair as he sat down, immediately going about pouring a drink for each of them. 

Havelock lifted his glass, and Martin followed suit.

“To Fugue Feast.”

“Indeed.”

They clinked the glasses together before drinking, letting a warm, pleasant silence settle over them. 

“So, Martin,” Havelock said eventually, cupping his snifter in his hand to warm the brandy, “how would you say your first Fugue Feast in Dunwall is going?”

Havelock had a very subtle yet somehow extremely shit-eating grin on his face.

“Oh, wonderful. Nothing like it was in Morley. Let’s see, I got accosted in the street for my Overseer collar.“

Havelock laughed.

“Some big oaf let a drunk hit me in the face with a glass, presumably in a ruse to get me back to his apartment.“

Havelock nodded, putting a finger to his chin in a mocking attempt to look thoughtful.

“And then once he was done pulling glass out of my face, he further embarrassed me with…an admittedly impeccable blow job.”

“‘Impeccable’, you say,” Havelock said, his voice a pleased rumble. He took another sip of his brandy. “That does all sound about right for Fugue Feast in Dunwall, I’m afraid. Except nothing’s been burnt down…yet. I’m sure by tomorrow, it’ll happen.”

“Exciting,” Martin said flatly, giving Havelock a look, “At least I’ve been enjoying the company.”

“Oh? Are you just saying that because I sucked you off so ‘impeccably’?” Havelock said, looking quite hatefully smug.

“No!” Martin’s eyes narrowed, but he was smirking, “Although… I’m certainly not holding it against you.”

The both laughed, while Havelock filled their glasses with another small pour of brandy, and once again a comfortable silence fell over them, as if they’d known each other for years. Havelock was looking into the flickering blue lamp with a vague smile on his face, and Martin was watching him without trying to look obvious about it. 

“Havelock,” Martin prompted softly, dropping his gaze to the dark liquid in his glass, “did you mean what you said before? About thinking of me, after we parted the Morgengaard?”

Havelock glanced back at Martin, who turned his eyes back up from his drink. “Of course, I did. I…thought about you often, in fact.” It was Havelock’s turn to look down into his drink, which he was slowly swirling on the tabletop.

“One day, I even went up to the Abbey to ask after you. They told me you were unavailable, meditating or…some such." He made a flippant gesture. "When they asked if I wanted them to relay the message to you, I—” Havelock shrugged, looking slightly sheepish, “I said no, that it wasn’t anything important, and I left.”

Martin blinked incredulously. “Why?”

The Captain sighed, finally setting his drink back down properly on the table. He had a strange look on his face, Martin thought, as if this extremely gentle line of questioning was bordering on torture for Havelock, the words having to be wrung out of him. Emotionally constipated, Martin decided.

“I just didn’t think you would want to see me again.”

Martin’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and he rapidly began to cycle through his memories of the trip from Wynnedown, wondering what could have given Havelock that impression.

“ _Why_?” He asked again, eventually.

Havelock blew out a sigh, again looking toward the flickering lamplight rather than Martin.

“It’s different on a ship, Martin. I wouldn't expect you to know, but it’s happened to me plenty of times. There aren’t too many of you on board, the work is hard, the days are long, the food is terrible. You meet someone you get on well with, you spend time together, you grow fond of one another, or so you think. They make you feel better when the work is rough and you’re exhausted. A shoulder to lean on. Then, you get back to shore, where everyone has their real lives, and you realize maybe you didn’t _really_ like each other that much to begin with. Or maybe they already have a life on shore that doesn’t need you in it. I just didn’t particularly want that to happen with you.”

Martin listened patiently, sipping his brandy.

“Not to mention, there was the Overseer thing. Must admit to not knowing the rules about that one.” He chuckled, though it lacked humor. “And, you’re young. You’re—” Havelock cleared his throat, “ _Extremely_ handsome. Witty. Smart. What in the Void could I offer you?”

Havelock was quiet for a beat then drained his glass, setting it down with a clink, finally looking back at Martin. “So I just decided to leave it alone.”

Martin’s initial impression of Havelock had been dashed in a matter of seconds. He’d seen him as a swashbuckling, confident, perhaps even lascivious man, to some extent on the Morgengaard but especially here tonight. A confirmed bachelor who put on a serious and professional face for the fleet, but enjoyed life’s pleasures with gusto behind closed doors. Maybe not a stereotypically handsome man, but one that drew people in regardless with his confidence.

Now the picture he had in his mind of Havelock had changed. Drink brought out the truth, particularly about how one felt about themselves. And Havelock suddenly struck Martin as…profoundly lonely. 

Content at sea, confident as a Captain, a force to be reckoned with as a naval officer. On shore, though, perhaps he was quite different. Even his apartment, now that Martin thought of it, seemed very unprepared for company from what he’d seen of it. Two chairs at a kitchen table barely big enough to justify having more than one. Practically undecorated and under furnished. Needlessly tidy, to the point of seeming barely lived in, which he supposed made sense for a Captain who probably spent more time at sea than at home.

“Well,” Martin said, leaning further into the space between them, “I wish you hadn’t left it alone. I’ve been thinking about you, too. Obviously, considering the work it took to track you down.”

Martin snorted, an impatient sound.

“Voidfire, all you had to do was tell the Abbey where I could find you and I’d have been there, you fool. I, on the other hand, had to talk to about a hundred surly seamen just to figure out where you liked to drink because I didn’t want to make an idiot of myself, ‘running into you’ on the docks.”

Martin watched the knob in his throat bob as Havelock swallowed hard, and went quiet.

The silence that fell between them now was not the same as it had been before. It was not comfortable or familiar. It was charged like a thunderhead, taut like a rope, as tense as the look they were sharing now. They were in a standoff, each waiting for the other to move. 

It was Martin who finally did. He pulled his chair forward and closed the gap between them, leaning his mouth into Havelock’s. It was surprisingly tender, Martin thought, especially considering what they’d already done sitting in this kitchen. He barely even noticed the sting of the cut on his chin, too drunk with more than just liquor to care. Havelock’s big hands wrapped around Martin’s waist, encouraging him to climb into his lap, which he happily obliged. Once he was settled into Havelock’s lap, the tenderness of the kiss gave way to a slightly more frantic energy. Martin boldly parted Havelock’s lips with his tongue, savoring the taste of fine brandy and expensive cigarettes on his mouth. Havelock seemed enthusiastic to return the gesture.

Martin spread his hands over Havelock’s broad chest, before reaching down to wrestle him out of his shirt. Once it was over his head, it was tossed thoughtlessly aside. Havelock eagerly started to pull Martin’s shirt open, before the Overseer stopped him, taking over carefully undoing the buttons himself. It was bad enough his vestments were already bloodstained, he didn’t need the buttons to be ripped off as well. He was sure he heard Havelock snort in impatience, but he chose to ignore it. He tossed the shirt aside once he finished, letting it land somewhere on the floor with Havelock’s.

Havelock had already gotten a brief glimpse of Martin’s hairy legs, but Martin thought Havelock still looked slightly stunned when he saw the pelt of dark hair that covered his belly and chest, even creeping up over his shoulders. He ran his hands up Martin’s chest, seeming to savor the feel of it against his hands, then wrapped his burly arms around Martin so they were chest-to-chest. 

Now that he was there in Havelock’s lap, his cock was impossible to ignore, as it pressed against Martin through their clothes. The chair was becoming oppressively small, and creaking pathetically under them. Martin was quite ready to get Havelock out of the rest of his clothes and see everything for himself.

“Bedroom?” Martin said, breaking off a kiss just long enough to gasp the word out.

“Bedroom,” Havelock confirmed huskily, immediately hooking his arms under Martin’s ass, picking him up with relative ease, though Martin heard him grunt again as he stood. 

Martin made a giddy noise, locking his arms around Havelock’s neck and his legs around his waist, his heart thumping. Of course he had realized Havelock was strong, but being picked up like that set his mind reeling and sent a shock of arousal down his spine. Maybe he’d get the chance to make up for his amateur performance from earlier tonight, after all.


	5. Man to Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read this and left comments/kudos! It's very exciting to have this silly fic finally out there for the, like, 8 other Havelock/Martin fans on planet earth. You guys make me want to write more! Hope you enjoy this chapter~

Martin made a soft, “Oof,” sound as he landed in Havelock’s bed, having been tossed there by the man with stunning ease. He landed across it sideways, his feet dangling over the edge. 

Oh. As Havelock moved around somewhere in the dark room to light a lamp, Martin closed his eyes and sank into the bed. Outsider’s eyes, it had to be the most comfortable bed he’d been in for as long as he could remember. Lying across it like he was, he realized just what a massive bed it was, too. Even stretching his arms over his head, he could just barely reach the other edge. He supposed if you slept stuffed into an uncomfortable, swaying, agonizingly small bunk on a ship for most of the year, you’d spring for a good bed on shore.

If he kept his eyes closed, even the extremely tantalizing thought of getting into Havelock’s pants might not be enough to keep him awake, so he fought the impulse and reluctantly reopened them.

Once the lamp on the nightstand was lit, Martin heard Havelock shuffling around elsewhere in the room. There was a rustle of fabric, then a creak, then Martin felt a cool breeze roll in over him, which was extremely welcome as the entire flat had been quite stuffy in the summer heat. He craned his neck to see that Havelock had pulled open the doors to a balcony.

He barely suppressed a snort, yet again thinking about how nice this flat was. And what a waste, considering Havelock probably spent less time here than he did on some miserable boat. An even bigger waste considering Havelock had given him the impression multiple times that he preferred the boat. Hah, maybe Martin would ask to sublet it next time Havelock went out to sea…

The thought was interrupted by Havelock reappearing at the side of the bed, looming over Martin like a shadow, framed by the faint light from the full moon coming in through the balcony doors. The glow from the lamp cast a rim light across Havelock’s left side, catching the curves of his muscles and the lines of his face in a rather captivating way. For what felt like the thousandth time tonight alone, Martin found himself marveling at Havelock’s incredible silhouette. 

He only had a moment to enjoy the sight before Havelock crawled onto the bed, trapping Martin under him, which was exactly where he wanted to be. He straddled Martin’s hips and let just enough of his significant weight rest against the smaller man so that it was pleasant instead of suffocating. He braced himself on one arm, while his free hand ran down Martin’s body, a thumb grazing over Martin’s nipple. The Overseer shuddered with delight. Havelock tucked his nose into the crook of Martin’s neck, kissing under his jaw and down his throat. 

Martin savored finally getting the chance to wrap his hands around Havelock’s narrow waist, before letting his fingers slide up over his back. He could feel the bunched up muscles there from the Captain holding his weight up, and let his fingers eagerly explore the sweaty hills and valleys. 

The position once again made Martin extremely aware of Havelock’s cock, pressed and very subtly grinding against him. 

“Time to get rid of these,” Martin said as-a-matter-of-factly, tugging at Havelock’s waistband. 

Havelock grunted in agreement, though he kissed Martin a few more times before pushing himself to his knees and standing up.

Martin made no move whatsoever to help. In fact, he tucked his arms behind his head and smiled, quite happy to sit back and enjoy the view. 

“Glad you’re comfortable,” Havelock said pointedly, reaching down to start with his boots.

Once they were off, he stood back up, looking down at Martin with a smirk. Instead of taking off his pants, he reached for one of Martin’s slender ankles and started removing his boots for him. Martin laughed, delighted to be undressed. He was unaccustomed to being catered to, and quite honestly, was enjoying it immensely. Havelock seemed happy to tend to Martin, and it seemed very…genuine. Martin found it as endearing as he did satisfying. It was nice to receive some caring attention, as it was not an experience his life had often offered him.

Havelock took his time, running his fingers over the smooth leather of Martin’s boots before pulling each one off. His hands then ran back up Martin’s legs to undo his fly again, pulling his trousers and drawers down his thighs. Martin arched his back slightly to help, the very, very least he could do. Finally, Havelock stripped him of his socks and garters, smiling rather deviously as he loomed over Martin’s slender, now totally naked body, standing with his hands on his hips. 

Martin was of rather average height, with thready muscles and a slim build. He had thick, dark body hair that left little skin uncovered, and was dotted from head to toe with freckles and moles, plus a number of scars from his rough life in Morley. He rarely felt particularly slight or small compared to other men, but Havelock was in another league entirely. Martin could feel the weight of his presence overshadowing him, and the man’s hungry gaze running him up and down was almost too much.

Martin felt himself blush at Havelock’s completely unashamed stare. The quick blowjob in the kitchen felt a thousand times less intimate than the simple act of Havelock seeing him naked, lying on his bed, his body stretched out and completely exposed. He resisted the urge, though, to cover himself, still lying there with his arms behind his head, his half-hard cock resting against his hip. 

“Alright, your turn,” Martin said, lifting a hand to make a flippant, ‘take them off’ gesture at Havelock, trying to redirect the man’s focus from him before he combusted under the attention. 

"Aye, sir," Havelock laughed, working his fly open. 

Then, slowly enough for Martin to really appreciate, he pulled his pants and underclothes down enough to free his cock. It practically sprung from the confines of his clothes, bouncing lewdly, obviously fully aroused.

Martin hoped Havelock didn’t see him gawk in the low light. The Overseer himself was on the smaller side of average, with nothing particularly impressive or memorable about his own, other than perhaps its pleasant curve and girth. It always seemed to get the job done, anyway.

The fucking Captain though, was  _ obscene _ . Even in the dim room, Martin could see the massive, fully-engorged head, the way the shaft got dangerously thick in the middle, the lewd veins, and heavy, low-hanging balls. It would surely take both of Martin’s hands to span the length of it. The  _ sight _ of it immediately made Martin himself go from half-hard to hard again, surprising himself. The  _ thought _ of getting  _ fucked _ by it, however, made Martin’s life flash before his eyes.

“Now, where were we?” Havelock said in a low voice, putting his hands on Martin’s thighs, sliding his palms up as he moved to take up his previous position on top of him. 

Martin practically purred in delight as Havelock’s hands ran up his hips, the knuckles of his thumbs just barely grazing his cock as they slid upward. They were eventually belly-to-belly again, and Havelock groaned as he settled into the negative space of Martin’s body, their cocks naturally coming to rest together between them.

The older man held himself up enough to get his hands between them, after spitting into his palm to provide a little lubrication, stroking them together slowly. Martin lifted himself onto his elbows so he could watch. The sight of Havelock’s massive cock against his own was very nearly funny, though he was a bit too distracted at the moment to laugh about it.

Havelock glanced up from his work to Martin’s face, taking the opportunity to kiss him again. They sank back down into the bed together, Havelock’s hand sliding out from between them. He snaked it under Martin’s arm and grabbed his shoulder for a bit of leverage. 

Martin made a curious noise before realizing Havelock’s intention. Honestly, Martin was relieved at this turn of events. He didn’t want to have the awkward conversation about not being ready for sex tonight, but he most decidedly was not, even more so after seeing everything Havelock had to offer. Maybe he could somehow sense Martin’s apprehension. 

Havelock rutted against Martin, slowly at first, but picked up the pace as they settled into a comfortable and satisfying position. Havelock’s other arm soon joined the first, pinning the Overseer neatly against him. Martin swallowed hard as Havelock rested his forehead against his shoulder, hot breath now blowing down Martin’s sweaty chest, making him shiver. After being practically pampered and catered to all evening, he felt quite content to let Havelock shamelessly use his body to get off. 

“Oh, Martin…Teague,” Havelock puffed, squeezing Martin’s shoulders tight as he fucked against him. 

Martin very nearly laughed when Havelock said, ‘Teague,’ as he had been almost positive that the Captain did not remember his first name and was simply not interested in looking foolish asking for it at this point. Apparently he was just keeping it formal until they were naked in bed together, frotting eagerly against one another. Martin knew better than to return the gesture; he had gotten the impression early on that Farley was not interested in being referred to as anything other than his surname, or his rank. 

Martin grabbed Havelock’s hips so he could push up against them harder, and he heard Havelock’s breath hitch as he did so. 

“Teague,” Havelock groaned again, turning his head so that his breath washed over Martin’s sensitive ear. 

Martin made a strangled sound, which seemed to encourage Havelock to focus his attention even more directly on Martin’s ear. He gently nipped at it, then ran his tongue along the curve, which was enough to make Martin’s hips buck up against Havelock’s as a tingling wave of pleasure washed down his spine. 

“Ahh, fuck,” Havelock groaned into Martin’s ear after a few more enthusiastic thrusts, “I’m going to come—”

He nearly crushed Martin in his grip as he came, his fingers digging into the Overseer's shoulders, still rocking against him as his cum spilled onto Martin's belly.  Martin, who had not expected to come again, suddenly felt like he was right behind him, especially now, with everything wonderfully slick between them.

“Outsider’s eyes, don’t stop,” Martin said rather urgently when he noted Havelock starting to slow. 

To the Captain’s credit, he went right back to work as ordered. A very short time later, Martin gasped and arched his hips into Havelock’s, adding to the mess between them. 

Havelock let out a deep, satisfied sigh, and lifted his heavy head to kiss Martin’s flushed cheek. Martin was glad for that, as he was still catching his breath, and the Captain had managed to wisely kiss him on the cheek that wasn’t injured. Good man.

They laid there for only a moment, before Havelock’s slowly unwound his arms from around him.

“It’s fucking  _ roasting  _ in here,” Havelock grunted, which Martin thought was quite a funny thing to say.  _ Very  _ romantic. He barely held back a laugh.

Havelock carefully crawled off the bed, and Martin did as best as he could to keep the cum on his belly from getting onto Havelock’s fine bed sheets, though there was…a lot. He assumed that was mostly thanks to Havelock. 

“Oh, you’re a mess,” Havelock said with a laugh, having managed to leave most of the problem with Martin, who somehow looked impressed and unimpressed at the same time. 

“If you wouldn’t mind getting me something to clean up with,” he said in a snotty tone, “unless you’d like me to roll over on this nice blanket.”

“Don’t get surly with me, now,” Havelock said, though he did as he was told, quickly leaving the room to fetch a cloth from the washroom. 

Martin rolled his eyes at the ceiling, smiling in spite of himself. He was still surprised he’d come again. Certainly not as intensely as he had before, but at least this time he was just content and satisfied rather than embarrassed. Vast improvement, as far as he was concerned. 

Havelock was sure taking his time though, Martin thought, starting to feel drowsy. It had been a busy night, and it had to be going on four in the morning by this point. His eyelids were starting to droop when Havelock finally reappeared, once again taking it upon himself to clean Martin up with a damp cloth. 

“Thank you,” Martin murmured, snapped slightly back into consciousness by the cold cloth on his belly. As much as he would love to just close his eyes and go to sleep, he needed to get up and relieve himself. 

“Which door is the restroom?” He asked, taking the cloth from Havelock to finish cleaning himself up. 

“First one when you walk out, to the right.”

Martin nodded and hauled himself up, watching Havelock pick up a box of cigarettes off the nightstand as he left the room.

Martin returned a few minutes later, having detoured to the kitchen to put the lamps out before going back to the bedroom, stumbling around slightly in the dark as he did so. He found Havelock standing, still completely nude, on his balcony, smoking a cigarette. Martin shook his head and laughed, which caused Havelock to look over his shoulder.

“Is this a Fugue Feast thing, or do you regularly treat your neighbors to this sight?” Martin asked, immediately climbing back into the bed. He sprawled out on his belly, his cheek sinking deep into one of the soft pillows. 

“Fugue Feast, unfortunately,” Havelock sighed, turning and leaning against the railing so he could look in at Martin curling up into bed. “I save most of my casual nudity for when I’m alone on my fishing boat.”

Martin laughed, but Havelock said it so flatly that he was almost positive it wasn’t a joke. “I don’t doubt it, somehow.”

Havelock smiled, taking one last drag off his cigarette, before flicking the butt off into the street below. He left the balcony doors open, but pulled the thin curtains shut, likely in hopes of keeping bugs out but still letting some of the pleasant night air in, then put out the lamp and crawled into bed. Martin grunted as Havelock started fiddling with the blanket, pushing it down the bed so he could get under the thin sheet instead.

“Here, come on,” Havelock said softly, rousing Martin from his half-sleep enough to get him under the sheet with him. 

Martin mumbled something that might have been, ‘good night’, draping himself over Havelock, resting his head on the Captain’s extremely comfortable chest. He sighed, and promptly fell asleep with the pleasant sound of the thump of Havelock’s heart in his ear.


	6. Make Yourself at Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading and leaving comments and kudos! Hope y'all like this chapter!

Something very irritating was trying to wake Martin up long before he wanted to be awake. Warm, bright light, shining right in his face. He groaned, opening his eyes to slits. The curtains over the balcony door were stirring in the breeze, parting just enough to let a sliver of the full morning sun cut across Martin’s face. 

He moaned and turned his head, only to moan again as he was suddenly reminded of the cut on his cheek as it rubbed against his pillow. He rolled onto his back instead, putting a hand to his cheek. It felt bruised, and he wondered if he had a black eye. The hand moved down to his chin, his fingers worrying gently at the cut there. It wasn’t large, but it would leave a scar, he was sure. The one on his cheek probably would, too. His head was aching, and he was trying to decide if it was from a hangover or from getting hit in the face the night before. Probably both.

It suddenly dawned on him that he was alone, and he glanced over to see that the blankets had been straightened out on Havelock’s side of the bed. Unbelievable. Naval discipline, he supposed. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He also realized there was a folded sheet of paper on Havelock’s pillow, which Martin did not hesitate to pick up, unfold, and read.

_Didnt want to wake you. Went to get breakfast. Back soon. Make yourself at home._

_-FH_

Martin chuckled at Havelock’s neat, disciplined cursive, and the fact that he’d signed it as if Martin might suspect it were from someone else. _And_ he’d signed it ‘FH’. Maybe Martin was allowed to call him by his first name, after all. How sweet. Maybe he’d try it later.

He folded the paper back up and set it aside on the nightstand, before stretching languidly, feeling just a bit sore in his shoulders from the tight grip Havelock had locked him in the night before. It was not an unpleasant feeling.

Eventually, he got up to relieve himself, noting as he walked out of the room that Havelock had apparently also tidied up his clothes that morning as well. There was a small writing desk in one corner of the room near the bed, and Martin’s boots were neatly lined up next to it. His uniform had been folded over the top of the chair, his belt and shirt having even been retrieved from where they had been dropped in the kitchen the night before and reunited with the rest. Martin shook his head after staring for a moment, then continued on his way. 

With his morning piss out of the way, Martin paused to examine his face in the mirror. Indeed, he did have a faint shadow of a black eye, but all in all, it didn’t look as bad as he feared. He also noted, with some confusion, scratches on his shoulders. Martin turned a shoulder toward the mirror to get a better look at them, before it dawned on him what they were from. Havelock, obviously. His mind wandered as he admired the marks, thinking about how Havelock had so easily picked him up and tossed him onto the bed, or the way his muscles had looked in the lamp light and felt under Martin’s wandering hands… He felt his stomach do an obnoxious flip just thinking about it, and quickly turned away from his reflection in the mirror to go back to the bedroom.

Martin yawned and stretched again, now able to get a good look at Havelock's things in the bright morning light. It seemed slightly more lived-in than the rest of the flat was, more decorated, though just as impeccably neat. He thought briefly about making his side of the bed, which was a hilariously tangled mess compared to Havelock’s side. The audacity of Havelock making his side of the bed while Martin was still sleeping in it was enough to convince him to leave it unmade.

Martin glanced over at his clothes again, loathe to get back into the sweaty, uncomfortable things. Maybe he’d just find something of Havelock’s to wear, instead. It absolutely wouldn’t fit, but lounging around in one of Havelock’s big shirts sounded about a million times better than putting his dirty, bloody, and very likely smelly vestments back on. 

Martin strolled over to Havelock’s dresser, quickly realizing how sparsely it was utilized. Half the drawers were empty, and he didn't seem to have many civilian clothes. Perhaps he lived on shore like he was accustomed to at sea; sparingly. Regardless, after a bit of rifling, Martin found a light, well-worn linen shirt and pulled it out, examining it for a bit before pulling it on. As he expected, it hung off him like a dress. He held his hands down at his sides and laughed as the sleeves slid down past his fingers. After rolling them up to his elbows, he fastened a few buttons and considered himself as dressed as he felt like getting for the moment. 

He turned his attention then to the items on top of the dresser, which seemed to be as close to ‘decorating’ as Havelock was capable. There were two model ships, one of the Morgengaard and one of an older-style whaling vessel, as well as a small statuette of a whale. Martin picked the statuette up, turning it over in his hands. It reminded him of one of Havelock's tattoos; a whale that spanned the width of his chest, with a banner inked above it that read, "SON OF THE HIGH OCEAN”.

The whale itself was carved in bone, with some markings etched into it that implied it was heretical. It felt warm in Martin’s hands, as many magical items did, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. As soon as he’d touched it, he felt like he could hear a faint whispering in the back of his mind.

 _Sailors_ , he thought. He set it back down carefully, impulsively wiping his hands on his shirt, as if it would clean the heresy off of them. He’d grown accustomed to touching such items with gloved hands at the Abbey, providing a buffer between his skin and the strange sensation the magic left behind. 

Next, there was an ashtray, nearly overflowing with cigarette butts, perhaps the only sign of disorder Martin had seen thus far in this flat. A dish, where Havelock clearly discarded any loose coins or small items from his pockets when he undressed at the end of the day. There was a not-insignificant amount of coin in the dish, and Martin suddenly wondered if Havelock would have left him here, alone, if he knew anything about his former life as a thief. Not that there really appeared to be much else to steal in this entire apartment, but the point stood regardless. It reinforced the idea in Martin’s mind that Havelock was a lonely man. Sure, they knew each other to some extent from their voyage together, and sure, the night before had been (mostly) pleasant, but for all intents and purposes, they were still practically strangers. Beyond that, it was also Fugue Feast.

Martin laughed. By the Void, he was well within his rights to take advantage of Havelock’s trust and rob him blind if he felt like it. Not that he would... He picked up a coin and squinted at it, turning it over in his fingers, wisely dropping it back in the dish as he noticed the next object on the dresser.

It was a display case lined with dark plum velvet containing an array of medals. They were all new and gleaming, no antique family heirlooms; not that Martin doubted for a second that Havelock was a well-decorated military man. He leaned in close to inspect them, only able to glean what a few of them were for at a glance. Valor, good conduct, wounded in battle, a handful of others he couldn’t discern. There was one he recognized immediately, however; a campaign medal…for the Morley Insurrection. He slowly stood back up. 

It gave him a strange feeling. He had, of course, suspected that Havelock had fought there as a young soldier, as so many of those in Gristol’s Navy had. He didn't hold it against him, personally, as it obviously hadn’t been his choice to go there and unleash chaos and misery on Martin’s homeland. But he had been there, and Martin had suffered his entire life because of the things Gristol’s Navy had done.

Martin’s eyes lingered on the medal for a moment longer before moving on. There was just one more thing on the dresser, a picture frame. Martin picked it up, cocking his head curiously at the image under the glass. It was a drawing, almost certainly done by a child. Interesting. He was positive Havelock had no children, not because he’d confirmed it, but it seemed plain enough to Martin that he was no father. 

The drawing itself was a portrait of a smiling young man with shaggy hair. While it was rudimentary, it was quite charming and well done for the hand of a child. It also appeared to be old, the paper yellowed and creased as if it had been folded and unfolded multiple times, the edges of some of the folds just starting to tear. It was signed simply, ‘BENNETT’ in one of the lower corners. Martin stared at it for a while, before turning the frame over in his hand. 

There was writing on the backing, and Martin recognized Havelock’s handwriting from the note he’d left. 

_When I asked Bennett what he wanted to call this one, he said, “A Portrait of my Brother Farley, Who Doesn’t Smile Enough”._

_He drew it in 1798, when he was nine years old. Three months later, he was gone. I hope, were he here today, he would be proud of me._

Martin blinked, feeling an ache in his chest as he stared down at Havelock’s troubled words. How interesting, he thought, that Havelock had a reminder of what was probably the worst event in his life sitting next to a reminder of what was probably the worst event in Martin’s life. 

He turned the frame back over, looking at the drawing again. It was a very sweet portrait, and he couldn’t help but wonder how much it really resembled Havelock when he was young. Carefully, he set it back down in its place on the dresser, trying to make sure it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed.

Now that he had made himself sad with his tendency to snoop, he decided to go to the kitchen and get himself a drink, if only to take the edge off his hangover and hopefully put him back in good spirits. Hair of the hound, and all that. He shuffled down the hall, running a hand through his hair, taking in the rest of the flat that he’d missed the night before. It was smaller than he had thought, with just the single bedroom, a tiny living area, and the small kitchen combined with the dining area. Still quite nice, and certainly one of the nicest Martin had been in, but not quite as extravagant as he had thought it was.

Martin went to work poking through the cupboards in the kitchen for a glass, hoping that Havelock had been serious when he’d said, ‘make yourself at home’. There was a bottle of whisky already open on the counter, so he poured himself a decent amount, ready to go sit out on the balcony in the warm morning sun. 

He noticed another full ashtray on the kitchen table, with a pack of cigarettes and matches sitting next to it. The Captain certainly liked to smoke. Martin did, too, but he was getting the impression that Havelock was the sort of man who had a cigarette in his mouth more hours of the day than he didn’t. It was a wonder he didn’t get up in the middle of the night to smoke, honestly.

Martin hesitated for a moment, before picking the pack and matches up. Might as well really get the day started right.

The only furniture on the balcony was a small, metal table and a single matching chair… And another glass ashtray, this one stuffed with cigarettes as well as the butts of a handful of cigars. Big surprise there. 

Martin set down his drink and the cigarettes and carefully smoothed his big shirt down over his ass so he didn’t sit on the bare metal of the chair. It was just warm enough from the morning sun to be uncomfortable. He sighed as he sat, taking a sip of whisky before shaking a cigarette out of the box. He lit it and shook the match out, dropping it in the already overly full ashtray. 

He felt better already, puffing away at the cigarette, looking out at the Wrenhaven. Havelock’s flat was in a relatively new area of construction near Kaldwin’s Bridge, which was only a few blocks down the river. There was a whaling vessel paused on the far side of the bridge, probably full of rowdy whalers ready to hit shore and make up for the night of the Feast they’d already missed. The drawbridge groaned as it lifted open, the sound nearly drowning out the shrieking of the gulls that circled the ship as it idled.

It was quite a nice morning, with a cool breeze blowing off the water to take the edge off the warm sunlight. Martin leaned his head back and closed his eyes, flicking the ash off his cigarette. How strange to have ended up here, he thought. His life was _nothing_ like this. At the Abbey, he shared an almost criminally small dorm with three other Overseers, sleeping on an uncomfortable rack bunk. It perpetually reeked of hound piss because it was near the kennels. And that was an improvement from the outpost he’d started at in Wynnedown, where he frequently slept on the floor because there weren’t enough beds to go around when Overseers from elsewhere passed through. Before that, as a war orphan and then a highwayman, he was lucky if he had a floor to sleep on or a roof over his head. He couldn’t relate to Havelock’s existence at all, really. Not his home, not his career, not even his age, honestly. Almost certainly not his upbringing, either. 

While he enjoyed the comforts that Havelock’s life were currently providing him, he suddenly felt a bittersweet pang. Fugue Feast would end, and he almost dreaded the return to his own life with the start of the new year. Immediately, he felt another twinge of regret as he realized that he already expected to stay here for the duration of the week. Did Havelock? After last night, he certainly hoped so. It felt like there were plenty of reasons to weather the rest of the Feast together. 

His eyes cracked open, a wild thought crossing his mind that he almost immediately dismissed as madness. But, what if he and Havelock…didn’t stop seeing each other? If Havelock wanted to keep seeing him afterwards, what would he say? They both, after all, had spent three months apart, obviously thinking of one another. Their chemistry on the Morgengaard had clearly been real, and persisted now on shore, despite Havelock’s apparent concerns. Martin certainly felt very much the same as he had on the ship, this time without the seasickness and looming mutiny to spoil it all.

It was foolishness of the highest caliber, and indulgent to boot, but Martin found it hard to resist considering the future anyway, even after only one night together. Havelock had made quite an impression on him, not only recently, but also at sea. He was serious and stern, but had a strangely humorous side that was quite charming when it could be drawn out. He was good at telling a story, but also a patient listener. He was huge and peculiarly handsome and rather adept in the bedroom as far as Martin knew from the (admittedly limited) experiences he'd had. And, perhaps most delightfully, seemed to be enthusiastic about catering to Martin, though his cynical side wondered if it was an act. It didn’t seem like it was, but what did he _really_ know about Havelock?

Martin took a long drag off his cigarette, closing his eyes again. Perhaps this flight of fancy was just the result of sleeping in an extremely comfortable bed after getting off (twice!) for the first time in ages, and starting his day on an empty stomach with a glass of whisky with the view from a posh riverfront balcony. He should definitely be more concerned about whether Havelock was even interested in him staying again _tonight_ than he was about any future what-ifs. 

Outsider’s eyes, though, he’d be thinking about Havelock’s fucking bed the next time he climbed onto his inch-thin mattress back at the cursed Abbey.


	7. Push/Pull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, we're more than half-way through, now! Thank you for reading! Here's an awkward breakfast scene.

Martin was just finishing the last sip of his whisky when he heard a noise from inside the flat, which he assumed was Havelock returning. His hangover did feel slightly better, and the liquor had done well to numb a bit of the pain in his face as well. The sun was quite warm now, but thankfully had risen enough that the balcony above Havelock’s was blocking most of it from the far corner Martin was tucked into. Only his legs stuck out in the sun, his feet propped up on the railing and crossed at the ankle, surely providing a sight for anyone on the street below who happened to look up. He didn’t care. 

“Oh, here you are,” Havelock said, leaning out the door.

“Here I am,” Martin said contently, very slowly letting his eyes roll toward Havelock, his head leaned back in his chair. He had one arm crossed over his chest, hand nestled into the crook of his other arm, in which he held his empty glass.

“Do you want to eat out here on the balcony?”

“Sure, the breeze feels nice. No offense, but your flat is quite stuffy.”

“I know,” Havelock sighed, “it gets the morning sun and it stays hot all day. Nice in the winter, though. It’ll take me a few minutes to get breakfast together; do you think you could bring one of the chairs from the kitchen out here for me?”

“Of course,” Martin said, letting his feet drop from the railing. Havelock disappeared back through the drapes. Martin stood and stretched before heading back into the bedroom himself. 

He very nearly crashed into Havelock as he did, since the man had stopped just on the other side of the doors.

“Good morning, by the way,” the older man said, sliding his hands around Martin’s waist, “and nice shirt.”

Martin laughed, “Thank you. I couldn’t stand the thought of putting last night’s clothes back on. I hope you don’t mind.” 

Martin’s hands naturally came to rest on Havelock’s chest, and so did his eyes. The Captain was once again wearing a threadbare undershirt, sleeveless this time, and so thin that Martin could see the tattoo on Havelock’s chest faintly through it. Unbelievable.

“Not at all. It suits you,” Havelock rumbled, leaning down to kiss Martin’s neck, then his jaw, then his mouth. “I trust you slept well?”

Martin sighed with delight, craning his neck slightly, “Never better. If the sun hadn’t woke me up, I might still be asleep right now.”

Havelock laughed, leaning back, “You looked so comfortable, I couldn’t bear to wake you. I assume your sleeping arrangements at the Abbey are a bit more…penitent? I always got the impression that comfort was against the Strictures.”

Martin snorted, giving Havelock a light punch in the chest, which he probably barely felt.

“You’re being a smart-ass, but you’re right. I sleep in a bunk room that smells like hound piss with three other men who snore louder than you.”

Havelock looked affronted, pushing Martin away with the grip he had on his waist. “I don’t snore.”

“You most certainly do. I woke up in the middle of the night because of it. Snoring right in my ear. I was so comfortable until the unbearable racket woke me up. I had to shove you until you finally rolled over.”

Havelock’s eyes narrowed dangerously, “Well, you can think about that tonight in your stinking bunk, unless you can bring yourself to tolerate me again.”

Martin grinned, taking that as an invitation to stay the night again. Perfect. He could tolerate snoring. He’d gotten used to it.

“Now get that chair, would you?” Havelock grunted, giving Martin a squeeze that felt more antagonistic than affectionate before letting him go.

“ _Aye_ , sir.”

Martin followed Havelock into the kitchen, quite enjoying the view as he did so. The man had been a sight in his naval uniform, but dressed down in his civvies might be even better, as far as Martin was concerned. His civilian clothes were clearly well worn, and they fit to Havelock’s body like a glove. His eyes trailed downward from his broad back to his slim waist, eventually coming to rest on his ass. Devastatingly flat. What a shame. Havelock’s snug clothes left little to the imagination, and unfortunately there was very little to imagine back there to begin with.

Martin eventually peeled his eyes from Havelock’s backside and grabbed one of the chairs, carrying it under his arm while he left the Captain to his work in the kitchen. He was quite curious to see what Havelock’s idea of breakfast was. Hopefully something better than what Martin remembered eating on the Morgengaard, which just might have even been worse than what he ate at the Abbey.

Martin rearranged the furniture on the balcony a bit so he and Havelock could sit in the shade, across from each other at the table. He took a moment to peer down at the street below, which was starting to fill with people. There was sort of a street fair going on down by the riverfront, with folks even starting to set up little stands and blankets to sell food or, more likely, contraband items that would get them arrested or worse the rest of the year. 

Martin lit another cigarette and leaned over the railing, watching the people milling around, some clearly already drunk, or maybe still drunk from the night before. Martin sniffed, catching a whiff of something that was clearly not tobacco smoke rolling past on the breeze.

The whaling ship from before had finally made it past the drawbridge, which was groaning again as it lowered back into place. 

Martin had nearly smoked his cigarette down to the butt when he heard Havelock’s heavy steps approaching. Martin turned, watching Havelock appear through the curtains again, carrying a tray in one hand, and two bottles of beer in the other.

“Could you move the ashtray?” Havelock said, gesturing at it with one of his full hands. Martin nodded and picked it up, setting it slightly precariously on the railing for a lack of a better place to put it, dropping the butt of his cigarette in it as he did so.

“Thank you.”

Havelock set the tray down, and Martin couldn’t help but gawk a bit at the spread as he took his seat. Neat slices of bread, cured meat, cheese, as well as a pile of smoked fish, a tin of hagfish roe, and a jar of what looked like apricot preserves on the side. 

Martin immediately picked up a slice of bread and started to spread preserves on it, only realizing how hungry he was now that food was sitting in front of him. Havelock seemed to be too busy uncorking the two dark bottles of beer to notice that Martin didn’t wait for him to sit down before he started eating. 

Havelock clunked a bottle down for Martin, taking a swig from his own as he took his seat. He smiled crookedly when he finally noted Martin eagerly digging into breakfast.

“They don’t feed you at the Abbey?” Havelock asked after a pause.

Martin shook his head, and said, “Not like this,” through a mouthful of food. “I think half the food they serve comes from a tin, and the other half comes from…I don’t know. Even worse tins.”

Havelock laughed, “Right, right, I forgot. Eating well is just like leaving the door to your soul wide open for the Outsider. Just like any other pleasure one might derive from life.”

Martin squinted at Havelock as he finished chewing, reaching for his drink. “You’re not religious, are you, Farley?” 

Might as well test out the name thing while he was probably already pushing it with a question about religion. At the bar, he had heard the Captain rather curtly inform the barkeep to not call him Farley, which struck Martin as odd given Fugue Feast’s loosened social norms. Whether that was just a quirk of being in the Navy or because he didn’t like his first name, Martin wasn’t sure. He expected a similar rebuke and braced himself for it.

Havelock narrowed his eyes briefly, but if it was because of the name or the topic (or both), Martin didn’t know. After a pause, the Captain took a breath and shrugged, then drummed his fingers on the table.

“I suppose not in the traditional sense. I know the Outsider is real. Magic, witchcraft, corruption of the soul, the Void, I know it’s all real. I just—”

He hesitated, giving Martin a strange look. Martin just blinked and made a vague gesture with his hand to encourage Havelock to continue.

“I don’t think the way the Abbey goes about dealing with it is right. Telling people they’ve let corruption into their lives because they break a Stricture. I break a Stricture a day at least, and I’d make a good bet that most folks in Dunwall do too, you Overseers included. But they’re out there ruining folks' lives for keeping trinkets or reading the wrong books. And I don’t think starving people of the things that make life worth living is the way to keep people from turning to the Outsider, either.”

“You think that’s what the Strictures are about?”

Havelock sighed, “I’m _positive_ you’ve studied them more than me, so I won’t pretend to be well-versed. Some of it makes sense. Some of it just seems...I don’t know.”

Havelock ran a hand over his stubbly face, as if he were trying to give himself a moment to think.

“The Abbey should be there to help people when they’re weak and suffering, not… make their lives worse for it.”

Havelock’s shoulders sagged, and he was pointedly looking out at the water instead of at Martin as he spoke.

“I agree with you,” Martin said, after letting Havelock sit with his obvious discomfort for quite a long time. 

The Captain’s eyes snapped back at him, a brow quirked.

“As long as we’re being candid, I’m not religious in the traditional sense either. I’m not a good Overseer. I’m…not even a legitimate Overseer. I basically lied my way into the Order, and stayed there because it was an easier life than the one I had before. For three years, I’ve put on the uniform but never really felt the conviction in my soul like my Brothers. But they provided for me what life in Morley after the Insurrection couldn’t, so I stay, and I do my best to let the good lessons sink in. Haven’t had much luck yet, but…maybe someday.”

“Ah, the Insurrection,” Havelock said in a low voice, “You must have been young when it happened.”

“I was seven. And trust me, after spending most of your childhood fighting to survive through famine and all other forms of man-made horror, you find it rather easy to fall in with an Order that feeds you and gives you a dry place to sleep at night, regardless of your convictions.” 

Martin was a bit surprised by his own candor. Perhaps he’d poured his morning glass of whisky a bit too heavy. He hadn’t told anyone that he’d joined the Abbey illegitimately, and he wasn’t quite sure why he’d divulged that information to a man he barely knew. It was not in his character to spill his own secrets. He started to regret it immediately, but tried to push the thought aside. It was Fugue Feast. Nothing he said here mattered, right?

They ate in silence for a few minutes, and Martin could practically feel the waves of guilt radiating off Havelock as he sat there, eventually lighting a cigarette and going to work smoking furiously. The discomfort grew the longer the silence stretched on.

“I never agreed with what we did to Morley,” Havelock said, finally breaking the silence, clearing his throat. “There was so much we could have done differently to avoid that much bloodshed, but we didn’t. We did what was easiest, without diplomacy, without thought, just using our numbers and brute strength as our only tactics.”

Martin cocked his head at Havelock, a vague, sad smile on his face. “You don’t have to try to absolve the sins of the Navy for my sake, Havelock. Or yours, for that matter. It’s not like you caused the war. You must have been young, too.”

Havelock looked extremely uncomfortable, his skin flushing from his chest to his cheeks. 

“I mean, I assume you fought there?” Of course, Martin already knew, but he had suspected Havelock was involved in the Insurrection even without seeing the medal. He was the right age, and he was a Navy man.

Havelock shrugged, “I suppose you could say that. I was there for three weeks before I got shot in the hip and had to be sent back to Gristol.”

Martin laughed, loudly, then covered his mouth, feeling bad for it immediately. He wondered if that was why he’d seen Havelock limp the night before, and felt even worse.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t laughing about you getting shot.” 

Martin cleared his throat awkwardly, frustratingly finding himself still wanting to laugh. 

The guilty, uncomfortable look on Havelock’s face had been replaced with a rather unimpressed one.

“It _sounded_ like you were laughing about me being shot.”

Now it was Martin’s turn to flush red, and he put his hand over his eyes, groaning. “I laughed because you seem so guilty about what happened during the Insurrection for a man who probably barely saw the coast before getting sent home, that’s all.”

“Hrm,” Havelock puffed on his cigarette, brow furrowed. 

“Let’s…drop religion and warfare from the breakfast conversation, alright? Now that we’ve both made asses of ourselves. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

They went back to eating in silence for a little while, Martin desperately wracking his brain for a topic of conversation to cut through the awkwardness. 

He eventually came up with, “Thank you for breakfast, by the way,” which was just absolutely brilliant. Couldn’t have thought of anything better to say whatsoever. 

“There’s a Tyvian place a few blocks away that stays open every year for the Feast, that’s where most of this came from,” Havelock said quietly, obviously still being tight-lipped.

Martin felt…agonized. Religion and politics. Don’t bring up religion or politics! And yet they’d both managed to do exactly that. Martin put his forehead in his hand, staring down blankly at the food in front of him, finding himself at a lack of words for once in his entire damned life. 

Havelock sighed, which made Martin look back up. “Martin…Teague. I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass. I’ve been taking shots at you for being an Overseer without knowing anything about your circumstances, or your life, or anything, really. I ought to know how to keep my mouth shut by now, but I don’t, clearly.”

Martin looked up, noting Havelock’s rather pained expression. Emotionally constipated, the Overseer found himself thinking again. It seemed like any human emotions beyond the most basic were very troubling for Havelock to process, let alone speak about. He looked like this apology was being wrung out of him through brute force. It seemed like torture.

“Just…I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve made a very good impression either time we’ve met.”

Martin was quiet for a moment. Havelock was looking away, still furiously smoking, rubbing his knotted brow. 

“Farley. Relax,” Martin said softly after he took a moment to gather his thoughts. He heaped some smoked fish on another slice of bread, not ready to let the awkwardness spoil his appetite at least, “I’m not mad. We’ve had very different lives, and that’s all there is to it, really. It doesn’t bother me, and impressions have nothing to do with it. You’re not religious. That’s fine. I’m still not sure if I am. The Insurrection was more than fifteen years ago, and I don’t particularly feel like letting it continue to disrupt my life. So let’s…just enjoy breakfast. Please?”

Havelock took a deep breath and flicked his cigarette away, looking back at Martin with a rather sheepish expression on his face. “Of course. How do you like everything?”

“Incredible,” Martin said, again through a mouthful of food, though he very politely tried to cover it with a hand this time. “This fish is amazing. You got this from the Tyvian place?”

“No, no. It’s kingfish I caught off the coast. A fellow sailor I know will smoke whatever I catch as long as I let him keep a fair share of it.”

Martin lifted his eyebrows. “It really is delicious. I have to ask, just how much time a year do you actually spend on land, Captain?” 

Havelock looked like he was doing math in his head as he picked up some food for himself.

“Depends on the year, I guess,” he said, taking a bite. “This year, or…last year, now, I suppose, I believe I was offshore for nine months total, split between three voyages, the one we shared included. The year before, I was barely on land at all. And the year before that, it seemed like I was only out on the water when I was on my own boat.”

Havelock had a very peculiar look on his face while he talked about sailing, Martin thought. Distant. Loving. A feeling Martin couldn’t relate to at all. His trip from Wynnedown to Dunwall would be his last time on a boat if he could avoid it. Between the vomiting, the bad food, the extraordinarily cramped quarters, and the extremely unpleasant company, he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less than end up on a ship again. He’d met Havelock, all the rest was Void.

“You really love it, don’t you? Sailing? The ocean? I found it exceptionally frightening, to be honest. And nauseating, but that’s beside the point.”

Havelock laughed, and Martin was relieved to feel the tension from a few minutes ago starting to melt away. Thank the Void. Get the big oaf to start talking about sailing, that was a good tactic.

“I do love sailing. It was always my intention to go to sea. Not always my intention to join the Navy, though. My father was in the Navy, and we—” Havelock made a face. “We didn’t always see eye to eye, so I wasn’t particularly keen to follow in his footsteps. I joined a whaling vessel when I was 16, after my brother passed away."

“Your brother passed away? I’m sorry to hear that,” Martin said, as if he wasn’t already aware. “How old was he?”

“Nine. Fever took him, very suddenly. There didn’t seem to be any reason to stay at home after that.” Havelock cleared his throat before continuing, clearly not wanting to discuss it further, “So, I went with a whaling ship for a few years, then I joined a crew trying for Pandyssia-”

He paused, taking a bite of his food, then talking with a full mouth, “I told you that already, though. That trip was terrible, but it didn’t matter. The things I saw…the things I experienced out at sea, I just had to keep going back. And the Navy seemed the best option to see as much of the world as possible.”

Havelock wagged a thick finger pointedly at Martin, “I _will_ try for Pandyssia again, though. That Sokolov fellow made it in 1808 or some such, I'm sure I can make the voyage some day."

“ _Why_ Pandyssia?” Martin had to ask, “I don’t understand the fascination.”

Havelock stared at Martin blankly for a few moments, as if it were the dumbest question he’d ever heard.

“It’s the ultimate unknown," he said finally, spreading his hands, "I’ve seen all the Isles in the Empire, but Pandyssia is still practically unexplored. I’ve read Sokolov’s book on his journey, and the things they saw were almost beyond explanation. Who knows what else we could find there?”

“I know what you’ll find there,” Martin grunted, gesturing at Havelock’s scar with the last bite of food in his hand, “more creatures who want to take chunks out of your face before they kill you for good this time.”

“Probably,” Havelock said, smiling in spite of himself. "What a way to go, though, don’t you think?"

Martin shook his head. "If you say so. Sounds like madness to me."

Havelock was an interesting man, that much was for sure. Almost certainly a maniac, a pretty blatant heretic, frequently an ass. Yet for some reason, Martin still found himself thinking that he hoped this Fugue Feast wouldn’t be the last time they saw each other. 

Maybe _he_ was the maniac, now that he thought about it.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Martin said, piling one last slice of bread with cheese and meat even though he was already full, “what's your plan for today?”

Havelock shook his head, “Nothing set in stone. I thought maybe later we could go down to the riverfront. You probably noticed it turns into a bit of a street fair down there. Always good food. By the time the sun goes down, it’ll be utter chaos, but there’s a few hours there where it’s relatively civil. Interested?”

“Of course,” Martin said, finding himself oddly pleased that Havelock had decided that they’d be spending the day together again. 

Not that he expected him to turn him out after breakfast, but still. It had been a strange morning so far. In fact, it had been a strange Fugue Feast in general, but he was beginning to realize that was probably just the nature of the occasion. 

“I am going to have to head back to the Abbey after breakfast. I need to drop that uniform off to be laundered, and I definitely need to pick up some of my civilian clothes, if I'm to stay here again. Unless you think I can get away with just wearing this?” He held up his arms, Havelock’s big shirt hanging off of him like a sheet.

“I mean, sure, you can get away with it. It’s Fugue Feast. The real question is, do you want to?”

“Not particularly. I might wear it back to the Abbey, If you don’t mind. Er, with my pants, of course.”

Havelock chuckled, “Feel free.”

“Thank you. And then, I suppose I’ll meet you back here afterwards, and we can go down to the waterfront?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Havelock said, finishing his beer and leaning back in his chair. “It’s quite a walk back to the Abbey, and you might be hard-pressed to find anyone running a carriage right now. You really up for that? The streets will be packed.”

“It’s alright, I walked here last night. I don’t mind it. And maybe since I won’t be wearing my uniform, I won’t get yelled at by anyone on the way.”

Havelock gave him a rather crooked smile, "For your sake, I hope so."


	8. Gossip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short but I hope you all like it anyways!

“Martin! Where were you last night? The other Brothers and I were hoping to—oh! What happened to your face?”

Martin had only just arrived at his dorm in the Abbey a second before his roommate, Limond, burst in the door behind him, full of questions as usual. He was the youngest of the four of them that shared the room, and the most eager. He was also a terrible gossip, which Martin used to his advantage frequently, but found quite irritating when he was the subject of curiosity. 

“Good morning to you, too, Brother Limond,” Martin said patiently, pointedly ignoring the questions, halfway through changing out of his uniform boots and trousers to swap over to his civilian clothes.

“That’s not your shirt,” the man noted astutely, shutting the door behind him with his foot, a curious smirk on his face. 

He put a hand on Martin’s bunk and leaned against it, apparently waiting for more information. He was also extremely unsubtly looking Martin up and down.

“What gave it away,” Martin said shortly, finishing buttoning his fly, “the fact that it’s five sizes too big for me?”

Limond gasped and leaned forward, pointing a playfully accusative finger in Martin’s face, “You were with that Navy man you were looking for, weren’t you? The one who brought us here from Wynnedown?”

Martin looked up, blinking first at the finger in his face, then at Limond’s shit-eating grin. He deeply regretted having mentioned Havelock to Limond at all, but he had, and now he was certainly going to suffer for it.

“Why, Brother,” Martin said, trying not to sound as irritated as he was rapidly becoming, though his voice dripped with sarcasm, “I was led to believe that the Fugue Feast was a time outside of time, our actions not to be questioned or examined.”

Limond’s eyes narrowed to curious slits. “At least, Martin, tell me what happened to your face? I do hope your Navy man didn’t do that to you.”

“No,” Martin interrupted, speaking over the end of Limond’s sentence, “that was someone else’s work. He was merely part of the reason it happened.”

There was no point in trying to keep it secret. Nothing stayed secret for long here, and at least he had the Fugue Feast as cover for any major indiscretion. 

“So you _did_ find him,” Limond said, then sighed dramatically, leaning his head against the hand he had on Martin’s bunk, “I suppose that’s a good enough excuse for ditching us last night. Assuming you had a good time, a theory which your face doesn’t support, but your shirt _does_. Wearing another man’s clothing seems very…intimate.”

Martin sucked his teeth, feeling himself starting to blush, which was extremely annoying. He quickly began to strip the topic of conversation off his shoulders, quite ready to change back into clothes that fit him properly before having to walk halfway across the city again. He turned his back to Limond, digging through one of the two drawers he had to himself in the room.

Limond gasped, then laughed. “Oh, you _did_ have a good time, _didn’t you_?”

Martin looked over his shoulder at Limond, a stern and rather confused expression on his face, before his brows lifted with dawning realization. The marks Havelock had left on his shoulders the night before must have been more obvious than he realized. Martin huffed, frustrated to be the subject of such scrutiny, and quickly pulled another shirt on, his cheeks blazing.

“Why don’t you tell me about _your_ night, Lim?” He said through gritted teeth, quickly buttoning his shirt.  
  
“Oh, Fugue Feast is a time outside of time, Martin, our actions not to be questioned or examined.”

Martin’s patience finally ran thin.

“Did you need something!?” Martin very nearly yelled, happy his back was turned so Limond couldn’t see his burning face.

“Not really,” Limond said rather sweetly, clearly unbothered by Martin’s tone, “I saw you coming down the hall and just wanted to ask if you’d be with us tonight. Will you?”

“Unfortunately, I won’t,” Martin said, smoothing his shirt down and fixing his collar, “I already have plans.”

“A pity. Well, then, Brother Martin…”

Martin took a deep breath. “Yes, Brother Limond?”

“Do tell your Captain to be more gentle with you. You’re quite precious to us, after all.”

Martin whirled around, a finger aggressively jabbing toward the door, “OUT!”

Limond practically shrieked with laughter in the face of Martin’s obvious fury, and slunk backwards toward the door.

“Have fun tonight, Teague,” He said in a low, delighted voice, giving Martin a mocking little bow before he mercifully left him alone. 

Martin rubbed at his brow wearily. Within ten minutes, no doubt, the rest of his roommates would know. Within an hour, anyone he knew even remotely in the Abbey would know. Time to pack and dash out of here before he had to deal with it. If the three of them all came back to the dorm to hassle him, there might be a murder, which was probably fair game during Fugue Feast, but also likely still looked down upon.

Martin reached for a satchel that hung off a hook near his bunk, a well-worn leather bag that he’d carried with him for as long as he cared to remember. It had been mended and re-mended a dozen times, and was only big enough to pack for a couple of days, but that was fine. He didn’t have much to pack, anyway.

Martin grabbed three shirts from his drawer, underclothes, socks. He waffled on bringing another pair of pants, as they’d take up a lot of room in his bag, and eventually decided against it. The ones he was wearing would have to do. He still had to stuff Havelock’s stupidly huge shirt into the bag so he could bring it back to him. 

Martin shut the top drawer and opened the next, which contained his personal items. Not much there. A few books, a few knick-knacks that had managed to make their way with him from Morley, a comb and some other grooming and body products (most of which he packed), a pack of cigarettes and matches (which he stuffed into his pocket). That was his small bag basically full to bursting.

Before he forgot, he picked up his uniform trousers and fished around in the pockets until he found the slip of paper he’d tucked in to one of them that morning. It was the note Havelock had left for him. Martin found it very…endearing, and, assuming Havelock wouldn’t miss it, had snatched it off the nightstand before leaving that morning. He turned back to his drawer and pulled a wooden box that was tucked away into the corner, just short enough to fit in the small space. He flipped it open.

There were a couple of coins sitting there, but they were just there as a decoy in case any of his roommates decided to pry into his things. The box had a false bottom, which Martin opened after looking over his shoulder to make sure Limond nor any of his other roommates had slunk back in. There was significantly more coin there, most of which Martin gathered up and put into an outside pocket on his bag. The note from Havelock was then tucked inside, before he replaced the false bottom, shut the box, then the drawer. 

Time to get out of there. He slung the bag over his shoulder, gathered up his uniform to drop it off at the laundry on his way out, and hustled out the door.


	9. The Long Walk

Martin was relieved to have the Abbey far behind him, even though he was starting to sweat in the early afternoon sun as he cut through the crowds. He could barely believe his luck, being able to sneak back through Holger Square without anyone stopping him. 

The streets were packed, and it seemed like once every few minutes or so, he’d have to dodge a fight, or swerve to avoid getting knocked down by a drunk, or politely refuse something someone was trying to sell him. For the most part, anyway.

When a woman stopped him and offered to sell him voidleaf, he initially started to decline, then paused.

Voidleaf was an interesting little substance, one Martin had a few experiences with. It wasn’t  _ explicitly _ banned by Gristolian law, but it was most certainly considered contraband by the Abbey, in spite of being used in a few of the rituals practiced by the women in the Oracular Order. 

People had been cultivating the stuff for generations. The plant was originally called cat’s tongue, and grew wild in multiple varietals across many parts of the Empire. It was a mildly mind-altering, mostly sedating plant that had been dried and smoked by folks in the Isles since, well, probably the beginning of time. It was only within the last couple hundred years or so that it started being cultivated. Selective breeding had increased its potency, but it wasn’t until it started being grown in soil fertilized with powdered whalebone that it really transformed into a new substance altogether; voidleaf. Still sedating, but much more mind-altering, now considered by many to be a drug that thinned the veil between the Void and the World, supposedly allowing the user to see magic that might otherwise be hidden in plain sight. Whether that was actually true or not was up for debate, but it hadn’t stopped the Abbey from banning it for use by the general public. 

Martin had tried it a handful of times, mostly in Morley and once with his roommates at the Abbey. Martin had pinched some from the contraband he was cataloguing, and his roommates had been enthusiastic to try it, much to his surprise. They had nearly been caught, but it had been fun regardless, and Fugue Feast seemed like a pretty good excuse to try it again. If Havelock wasn’t interested in partaking with him, then he could give it to Brother Limond as an apology for hollering at him earlier.

He traded a few coins for a small sachet of the stuff, which he sniffed before thanking the woman, tucking the bag away and wading back into the crowd. 

By the time he finally arrived at Havelock’s flat again, he was uncomfortably warm and his feet were sore. He’d gotten so used to the boots he wore for his uniform that his civilian shoes felt like they didn’t fit right anymore. Hopefully Havelock didn’t plan on going straight back out, because he was looking forward to lying in the bastard’s comfortable bed for a few hours before braving the crowds again.

Martin sighed as he got to the top of the steps, knocking on Havelock’s door. He stood there with growing impatience as his knock went unanswered. If Havelock had left when he knew Martin was coming back… 

Martin checked the number by the door, making sure it was the same one he had committed to memory when he took off that morning. 

He lifted a hand to knock again, then paused, trying the handle instead. Thank the Void, it was open. Still stuffy and horrible inside the flat, but at least he wasn’t stuck standing like a fool out in the hallway.

“Havelock?” He called, shutting the door behind him. 

Again, no answer. That was fine, though Martin thought Havelock must have been out of his mind to leave his flat unlocked (during Fugue Feast, no less) if he really had left. At least now there was nothing stopping him from taking a nap. He quickly took off his shoes, happy to be rid of them, leaving them by the door before hurrying down the hall toward Havelock’s room. 

Martin was just about to drop his bag on the floor and throw himself into the bed when he noticed Havelock still sitting out on the balcony. Must be why he hadn’t heard Martin knocking. Breakfast had been cleared away, and Havelock looked to be…writing? It was hard to tell with the angle Havelock was at, but he was hunched over the small table and Martin saw him dip a pen into an inkwell he’d brought out there with him. 

Interesting. Martin cleared his throat loudly, hanging his bag on the footboard of the bed. The Captain straightened up, looking over his shoulder, a cigarette dangling off his lip (of course). 

“Oh, Martin! I didn’t hear you come in,” Havelock said, going to work cleaning his pen off on a cloth he had sitting next to him on the table. 

“Clearly. Thank you for leaving the door unlocked, by the way,” Martin said, putting his hands on his hips. “Don’t tell me you’re working?”

“Not exactly,” Havelock said, putting his pen down next to the book he’d been writing in, which immediately piqued Martin’s interest. 

‘Not exactly’ could mean so many things. That he was working, but it wasn’t for the Navy, or that he was doing some other odd job Martin didn’t know about, or that he wasn’t working at all. Havelock seemed a bit young for memoirs and a bit…unimaginative for novel writing. Journaling? Now that would be something. Martin’s eyes flicked over to the writing desk in the corner, suddenly finding it a little more curious than he had before. He figured it was just for dealing with correspondence. The Captain being a writer of some sort hadn’t crossed his mind at all. 

Martin looked back at Havelock.

“‘Not exactly,’ huh,” he said, cocking his head. “Well, don’t stop on my account if you’re in the middle of something. That trek back to the Abbey was exhausting, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I laid down for a while.”

He wasn't waiting for permission. As soon as he mentioned it, he dropped into the bed on his back, undoing a couple of the buttons on his shirt. He glanced over at Havelock, who was still looking at him.

“Not at all. I can’t blame you, that’s a hell of a walk on a quiet day. Can’t imagine going back and forth with all these people out and about. What’s the Abbey like during the Fugue Feast, anyway? Do all the Overseers clear out or…?”

Martin snorted, closing his eyes, putting a hand over them to further block out the light.

“Unfortunately not. One of my roommates was practically waiting for me as soon as I walked in, eager to put me through the wringer about my night. It seemed about as busy as usual, except everyone was in a good mood for once. Though, to be honest…”

Martin pursed his lips thoughtfully, “I suppose I don’t know what the Abbey is like during Fugue Feast, aside from the rumors I’ve heard. It’s my first new year there, after all. Perhaps I’m missing out. ”

Martin smirked, lifting his hand and cracking an eye open to gauge Havelock’s response.

“Oh, well, please, don’t let me stop you if you’d like to make the walk back again. I can only imagine what that many horny, repressed men get up to given the slightest opportunity. I wouldn’t want to miss it, either.”

“Funny, I’ve heard the same thing said about ships at sea. Only sailors don’t wait for Fugue Feast.”

Havelock grunted, “I…certainly wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Certainly not,” Martin said, closing his eyes again. 

Outsider’s eyes, this bed was comfortable. He had quite purposefully laid down on the side of the bed Havelock seemed to favor the night before. He rolled onto his side, his back to Havelock so he wouldn’t see the decidedly embarrassing display of Martin pressing his nose into the pillow, taking a deep breath. Like everything in this flat, it smelled strongly of tobacco. His mind wandered, the mental image of Havelock lounging here with a cigarette in his mouth sticking in his head. 

Under the tobacco, he could smell sweat, and the vague scent of aftershave and the wax Havelock used to keep his hair neat. Earthy, woody, salty. Strong and honestly, not entirely pleasant, but Martin found himself nearly hypnotized by it and the image in his mind of the Captain lying here. Oh, perhaps with Martin straddling his hips, Havelock grinning and puffing infuriatingly on his cigarette while Martin did all the work— 

Damn him! He stubbornly rolled back onto his back, trying to clear his mind before his thoughts wandered too far. He was trying to  _ relax _ , and the impatient heat settling in his groin was not helping. Martin took a deep breath, trying to think of literally anything else but the frustrating hold Havelock had on his mind and body. 

“Martin?” 

He blinked out of his daze at Havelock’s voice, realizing the man had been speaking and he hadn’t processed any of it. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted to take a nap before we went out. I hope I didn’t wake you if you’d already fallen asleep.”

“Yes, sorry,” he lied, since it was much less embarrassing, “I think I must have dozed off. You don’t mind, do you?” 

“Of course not. I may even join you once I finish here. Can’t say I got much sleep last night.”

...Outsider, damn him! Martin silently prayed he’d be asleep before Havelock got into bed alongside him, if he did. It was hard enough not obsessing about the night before or the potential for the night ahead of them with Havelock just sitting across the room from him. 

“Me either,” he said, trying to sound much less pressed than he felt.

“Sleep well, then.” 


	10. No One Sleeps While I'm Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, but the last three are extremely long, so hopefully that will make up for it! Thanks for reading!

Martin mercifully did fall asleep long before Havelock crawled into bed next to him, and was only very slightly stirred from his sleep by it when he did. He wasn’t sure how many hours later it was when he woke up, but the light outside had a very distinct late-afternoon look to it. He found himself neatly pinned under one of Havelock’s massive arms, his back settled against Havelock’s front, their knees stacked together. Havelock was snoring softly against the back of Martin’s neck, an extremely pleasant sensation that was quickly waking him up.

Martin wriggled around under Havelock’s heavy arm, rolling onto his other side with some effort so he was facing the Captain instead. Havelock made a noise, squeezing Martin closer at the disturbance, as if he could crush him back to sleep. Martin couldn’t help but laugh.

“Farley,” He said in a soft, sing-song tone, “we’ve been sleeping for hours. We ought to get up.”

He trailed his fingers up Havelock’s chest, then up his neck and under his chin. 

“Don’t call me Farley,” He grunted, barely awake but still very capable of getting irritated.

Martin blissfully ignored Havelock’s drowsy-but-curt tone.

“Come on, let’s not miss out on the evening’s festivities,” he said, just a little more loudly, before pressing his lips to Havelock’s. 

It only took a few moments of encouragement of that kind for Havelock to put some effort into waking up properly. He kissed Martin lazily, letting his huge hands wander Martin’s slender back.

Martin laughed, planting his hands firmly on Havelock’s chest, breaking their kiss and putting some space between them. “I’m sorry, I thought we had plans to go down to the waterfront tonight?”

“Ooohhh,” Havelock groaned dramatically, making a show of pathetically fighting back against Martin, craning his neck to try to kiss him again, “I’d been drinking when I made those plans. We could just stay in. We’re already here, after all.”

“Hmm…that _is_ a very tempting offer,” Martin said thoughtfully, putting a hand over Havelock’s mouth, “but, I want you to show me around. I’ve barely seen this part of Dunwall. So wake up.”

Havelock groaned again, turning his head away from Martin’s hand. “But…”

Speaking of, Havelock’s hand continued to trail downward, sliding over the curve of Martin’s ass. He gave it a squeeze, which prompted Martin to slap his arm. “Farley!”

“Oh, very well!” Havelock grunted impatiently, rolling onto his back, releasing Martin from his grip very reluctantly. 

Martin leaned over him, smiling down at the Captain’s surly face. “We'll have fun!”

It only took a little more cajoling to get Havelock out of bed and ready to go. The two of them took a few minutes to make themselves slightly presentable before heading out, sharing the mirror in Havelock’s room to put their hair back into place. Martin thought Havelock still looked bleary as he paused in the hall to lock the door. Funny, Martin felt perfectly refreshed after his nap. He waited for Havelock patiently at the bottom of the steps while he fumbled with the key, then immediately started patting at his pockets, clearly looking for something.

 _Looking for his cigarettes,_ Martin thought, feeling quite satisfied with himself when Havelock pulled his cigarette case out and stuck two of them in his mouth. He lit them both before starting down the steps, handing one to Martin when he reached him.

“Thank you,” Martin said, falling into step alongside Havelock as they made their way down to the riverfront. 

The sun was starting to set now, throwing a pleasant pink light over everything. Kaldwin’s bridge loomed huge over the river, and it was packed with people going from one side to the other. The smell of food from all over the Isles was being carried on the breeze, and Martin felt…strangely at home. _This_ reminded him of Morley, from before the Insurrection, stirring memories of the few pleasant years of his childhood that he’d very nearly forgotten by now. 

Hm. Martin smiled to himself, glancing over at Havelock, who still barely looked awake. He hesitated for just a moment, then reached for the Captain’s hand, fingers sliding over the calloused skin of his palm. Havelock blinked, looking down at their hands briefly before giving Martin’s hand a firm but not unpleasant squeeze. Nothing like the bone-crushing handshake he’d subjected Martin to when they met at the Bend, much to his relief. They waded into the crowd on the street running along the river hand-in-hand.

A couple hours and many drinks from dubious sources later, the pair were on their way back to the flat, having quite enjoyed the food and the festivities. The crowd was getting rowdier now that the sun had set, so they decided to retreat to Havelock’s calm, private home instead.

Havelock had a heavy arm over Martin’s shoulders, and a rather handsome leather bound journal that he’d bought from one of the vendors on the waterfront tucked under his other arm. Havelock mentioned that he made a point to look for one vendor in particular, who had apparently been there for Fugue Feast the last few years selling these books. He said he liked the paper and admitted to owning quite a few of them, all filled by now, and lamented that the shop they were sold at year round was hours away. Fugue Feast was the only time he had a real chance to get a new one.

Outsider’s eyes, but Martin wanted to read those journals. His mind was swimming with strange liquor, but he was plotting a way to do it nonetheless. Or perhaps the strange liquor was only encouraging his typical tendency toward voyeurism and prying. 

“How long have you been keeping journals, anyway?” He asked, extremely innocently, since the thought was burning on his mind.

“Eh? Oh. I don’t know,” Havelock said with a shrug, pulling Martin close as a couple of rowdy folks bustled past them, “I started…I guess when I was a teenager, just casually. Kept it up when I started going out to sea regularly. It was a pretty useful, uh, skill, I suppose you could call it, to have once I became a Captain. Have to keep a ship’s log every day, after all.”

Martin’s eyebrows shot up. Since he was a _teenager_?? 

“Have you kept them all?” he asked, again, perfectly innocently.

“I’ve tried to, but I think I’ve lost a few over the years,” Havelock paused, “why are you so curious?”

“Oh, I just can’t imagine having a record of my life for that long,” Martin lied quickly, waving a hand, “I can’t say I ever got into the habit. I was always...more of a reader. Still am, I suppose.”

“Hm. Well...It’s Fugue Feast, so I’ll be honest with you,” Havelock said as they came to the step in front of the main doors to his building, “and trust that you won’t tell anyone else…”

Martin’s interest was immediately piqued. Voidfire, there was nothing he loved more than a secret, even a benign one. Sometimes a banal secret was the most delightful of all.

“I started keeping a journal because I couldn’t read very well when I was a kid. Thought writing every day would help, but, honestly…” Havelock laughed, shaking his head. “I’m still not very good at it. Not particularly good at writing, either. Wouldn’t be surprised if I misspelled something in that note I left you this morning, honestly.”

Outsider’s _eyes_ , this was just too good. What a prize. The man had journals of basically his entire life, likely poorly written, and if the Outsider was looking down on him with any sense of goodwill at all, they’d be somewhere in Havelock’s flat and Martin would get just a few minutes to tear through as much of them as he could. He couldn’t help it. It was absolutely in his nature to want to learn everything he could about someone who interested him, whether it took a friendly conversation or subterfuge, or anything else in between. 

And even better, he knew Havelock had a current journal, the one he’d been writing in that morning. A journal that very well might mention Martin himself. The very thought of it had him feeling giddy.

Martin was grinning as he started to head up the steps to the flat, barely holding back a delighted chuckle at the revelation, but Havelock snatched him by the wrist, giving him a serious look.

“That’s between you and me and Fugue Feast, Overseer,” he said, pulling out the rough _Captain_ voice, “you got that?”

The tone was gruff, but the vague, crooked smile that slowly appeared on his face told Martin everything he needed to know. It was a threat lovingly wrapped in a joke, or at least as close to a joke as Havelock was capable of.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Martin said, looking very demure and innocent. 

Havelock held his wrist for another moment longer, the smile sinking deeper into his features before he let Martin go. They went up the steps together and paused at the door for Havelock to find his key.

“Ah, by the way, Havelock, I have one little surprise for tonight.”

“Oh? What’s that?” Havelock said, sounding like he was only half paying attention as he fumbled with the lock in the dark hallway, his state of slightly advanced drunkenness not helping much.

“I brought voidleaf.”


	11. Witchcraft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's got it all! It's long! There's magic weed! There's magic tattoo! There's actual horny stuff! Wow! Please enjoy!

“Voidleaf?” Havelock said, shutting the door behind them.

Martin paused by the door to take his shoes off, as they were still hurting him. Havelock followed suit.

“Have you ever tried it before?”

“Well of course. Not recently, for sure, but I was young once, allegedly. Have you?”

“Mmhmm. I stole some from a bunch of contraband I was cataloguing at the Abbey and smoked it with my roommates,” Martin said with a laugh, looking up at Havelock as he finished with his shoes.

“My, it sounds like you run with quite a rough crew,” Havelock said, voice thick with sarcasm as he put his shoes aside and then went to work lighting the lamp by the door.

“Oh, blow off,” Martin scoffed. “Are you interested in smoking some with me tonight or are a bunch of Abbeymen braver than the big, bad Captain?”

“Hey,” Havelock prodded Martin in the ribs as he stood up from removing his shoes, “I never said I was afraid, I just said it’s been a while. If you want to, I’m happy to join in. I remember it being a fun experience.”

“Perfect,” Martin said, going down the hall to dig in his bag, “I’d assume an avid smoker like you has cigarette papers around somewhere? Or a pipe?”

“Oh, not my pipe,” Havelock groaned, following Martin into the bedroom, pausing to light a lamp on the nightstand nearest to the desk. “It’ll be ruined. I have cigarette papers in my desk.”

Havelock strolled over to his desk, setting his new journal down on top of it before digging through the drawers. He pulled a small silver tray from the top drawer, which he clearly used for rolling his own cigarettes. There was a packet of dried, loose tobacco, a couple of different booklets of cigarette papers from various brands, and a few already-rolled cigarettes. He put the tray on top of the desk and pulled his chair out, sitting down.

“Bring it over here and I’ll roll some up for us. Unless you’d like to.”

“Void, no,” Martin said, bringing the little sachet over to Havelock, “last time I tried it ended up…the saddest, lumpiest little thing, and we could barely keep it lit. I’m sure—”

Martin picked up one of the finely hand-rolled cigarettes off the tray, turning it over in his hands. Voidfire, Havelock was like a machine. It might have been the most beautifully rolled cigarette he’d ever seen, and he admired it for a while before remembering he’d been in the middle of a thought.

“I’m _positive_ you’ll be better at this than me.”

Martin set the cigarette back down on the tray, leaning his hip against the desk so he could watch Havelock roll their voidleaf cigarette, intrigued to see how it was done by someone with experience.

Havelock took the sachet and gave it a vigorous rub between his hands to break the leaf up and make it easier to roll. As soon as he did, a pleasant, sweet smell filled their little corner of the room. Almost in unison, the two of them turned their heads up and took a sniff. Their eyes met briefly, and Martin smiled, cocking his head. 

Havelock snorted, also smiling as he pulled a leaf of fine paper from one of the booklets. He folded it neatly in half, creating a valley for the voidleaf to settle in. Havelock upturned the sachet of voidleaf out onto the tray and set it aside, the bag conveniently small enough to hide in one's pocket but inconveniently small for the Captain's large paws to maneuver with any deftness. What resulted from Havelock's muddling was a shaggy crumble of greenish-violet bits coated in a slightly sticky dusting of white powder. Once dried and cured it was a rather delicate substance.

The Captain picked up the folded paper in one hand and carefully started to pile the voidleaf up into the valley, slightly easier said than done with his huge hands, though he somehow made it look effortless. Years and years of practice, Martin assumed, and a prodigious smoking habit to thank for it

Havelock used only about a third of the voidleaf Martin had brought, then carefully went about tapping it all down neatly into the valley of the paper. After that, he folded it shut, pinched either end, and started rolling it back and forth between his fingers, the paper sliding across itself as he worked to mold the captured voidleaf into a cylindrical shape inside the paper. Once he was satisfied, he rolled the side closest to him down until it was just lined up with the voidleaf, then folded the long side of the sheet over it, turning it in his hands slowly and skillfully.

Martin found himself paying rapt attention. He’d never thought of hand-rolling as being particularly skillful or, well, beautiful, but the way Havelock’s massive hands so delicately worked at creating the perfect little cigarette…He was quickly changing his mind. His attention was further drawn in when Havelock leaned forward to run the last little edge of paper across his tongue, before finally smoothing the whole thing down with his thumbs. 

Havelock held it up to Martin, one eyebrow lifted. “Looks good?”

“Incredible,” Martin said, reaching to take it gently from Havelock’s hand, “would you teach me how to do that sometime? I’ve never rolled my own cigarettes. Seems like such a…masculine thing to know how to do.”

Havelock chuckled and shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, I’ll teach you. And I bet you’ll be better than me, with those delicate little hands of yours. After some practice of course. You won’t have to disappoint your roommates with a sad, lumpy contraband cigarette anymore.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” Martin said, his voice thick with sarcasm. Bastard. 

Havelock rose, putting a hand on the table to ease him to his feet. Martin had noticed that he often grunted when he sat or stood, or used a hand to steady him. It must have been his hip.

“I’m going to get myself a glass of brandy. Would you like one?”

“Sure,” Martin said, setting the voidleaf cigarette down on the tray. 

“Be just a moment.”

Martin watched him go before turning his full attention to the bookcases near the desk. His eyes immediately started scanning the spines. Hiding among the dozens of painfully boring sounding tomes about the sea or ships or the Navy, Martin noted quite a few titles that were considered extremely heretical and banned by the Abbey. Books about scrimshaw (and not of the legitimate, artistic kind). A book about the Void that had been banned for the rather positive way it presented the Outsider. There were also a handful of rather raunchy titles, which strayed a bit too close to glorifying acts of indulgence in the wanton flesh for the Abbey to tolerate. _Interesting_ , and quite bold of Havelock to leave them out. He clearly paid no heed to much of what the Abbey demanded of the everyman.

Banned titles weren't what he was looking for, though. His eyes kept wandering.

On the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases he noticed a row of books of similar size and width, with nothing but a number or two written on the spine. A year, he immediately surmised. That had to be them. The first one was tagged with “97,” which Martin thought probably meant 1797. 

He wasn’t so out of his mind as to start going through them when Havelock was just down the hall pouring a couple drinks, but he did quickly file the information away for later. While it was a good discovery, judging by the numbers on the spines, these were just his older journals… He’d have to watch Havelock like a hawk to figure out where his current one disappeared off to when he was finished writing in it. That was the one Martin was most interested in.

He sighed, feeling satisfied that he knew what he was looking for, to some extent. He picked up the voidleaf cigarette again, tucking it behind his ear as he crossed the room and pulled the huge balcony doors open. Contented, he took in a deep breath of the cool, salty air. The moon hung heavy in the sky, not quite full like it had been the night before, but still bright enough to cast some pleasant silver light into the room. 

Pleasing music was playing somewhere down on the waterfront, drifting up to the balcony. Martin stood and enjoyed it for a moment, before turning back into the room and unbuttoning his shirt. He hung it over the footboard, then threw himself into the bed. Happy to finally be out of most of his sweaty clothes, he stretched out and waited patiently for Havelock to reappear with their brandy. It was only a few minutes later that he finally did, a snifter in each hand. He set one down on the nightstand near “his” side of the bed, the other he offered to Martin, who purred out a thank you and quickly took a sip.

“Thanks for opening the doors,” Havelock said, his voice practically a sigh, “there’s a nice breeze. Ah, and music…” 

The Captain was smiling vaguely, standing between the bed and the doors, gazing through them briefly before looking back at Martin, who was spread out and shirtless on the bed. Havelock chuckled, and apparently decided to join him pulling his thin undershirt off over his head. He hung it over the footboard as Martin had done with his shirt. 

Havelock sat down on the edge of the bed, taking a deep sip from his brandy, letting out another rather content sigh as he did so. He set the glass on the nightstand again, then flopped back into the bed, his head coming to rest on Martin’s thigh. 

Martin smiled down at him, looking rather feline in the low light of the room. 

“Shall we?” he said in a low voice, holding the cigarette out near Havelock’s face.

“Indeed. There’s matches on the nightstand next to you. So who does the honor of the first puff, huh? The man who brought it or the man who rolled it?”

“Hmm,” Martin made a thoughtful noise as he reached for the matches, “you did roll it quite beautifully.” He handed the matches and the cigarette to Havelock. “Suppose you’ve earned it.”

Havelock laughed, sticking the cigarette in his mouth. He lit it, then took a deep draw. He couldn’t help but cough as he inhaled the thick, strangely sweet smoke. After one more tiny puff, he passed it back to Martin, who followed suit, also coughing. 

Havelock hauled himself up once Martin had the cigarette, so he could settle in next to him a little more properly. Once he seemed comfortable, Martin handed the cigarette back to him. 

The more they smoked, passing the cigarette back and forth between them, the stranger the world around them started to become. Martin watched as the pale moonlight coming into the room took on a distinctly saturated blue hue, and appeared to be blowing in with the breeze in an odd way. The light beams bent and swayed as they fell across the floor, and got tangled up in the thin drapes that hung over the open doors. The dark corners of the room seemed to drip with a strange purple shadow. The music that was coming in through the open balcony doors was barely comprehensible anymore, just a strange but pleasant sound emerging from somewhere that seemed far away and very close at the same time. 

“I think…I’m done,” Martin said, staring at the cigarette in his hand. The white paper looked almost lavender in his hand, as if the voidleaf inside was staining it as they smoked. “Do you want any more?”

Havelock shook his head, “Better not.”

Martin leaned over, stubbing the last third of the cigarette out in the ashtray. His movements felt slow and his head heavy, his mind thick with strange thoughts. Not an unpleasant sensation, but the effects were definitely stronger this time than he had ever experienced before, perhaps because he’d been drinking as well. He slumped onto Havelock, his cheek coming to rest on the Captain’s broad chest. His tattoo seemed intensely interesting at the moment, the faded ink seeming more vibrant than it had before, the movement of the lines at odds with Havelock’s breathing, his chest rising, falling like great ocean waves. He started to trail a finger along the banner that flew over the tattoo of the whale.

“Son of the High Ocean,” he said, reading the words aloud in a thick voice, noticing Havelock’s shudder as his finger ran over the ink.

The Captain laughed, reaching for Martin’s hand to stop him from tickling him any further. 

“Ooh,” Martin said, his eyes now on the tattoo on Havelock’s wrist. 

The Overseer sat up a bit, pulling Havelock’s arm toward him. The tattoo was of a sea serpent, its mouth open as if it were about to strike. It coiled around Havelock’s wrist a couple of times, the head on his mid-forearm, the tail curling around nearly to his palm. Martin had noticed it before, but hadn’t paid it much attention until now.

“Do you see it?” Martin said, looking up at Havelock’s face, not waiting for an answer before he looked back down at the sea serpent.

“My tattoo? Of course.” Havelock said, without looking.

“No, not just that. It’s…the ink was gray before, now it looks blue. Bright blue.” Martin paused, the wheels turning in his head before a realization dawned on him, “Oh, it’s one of _those_ tattoos, isn’t it? _Heretical._ "

The last word he said in a slightly sing-song inflection.

“Tsk!” Havelock sucked a breath in through his teeth, though he let Martin keep examining his arm. 

Martin put his hand on it, feeling a strange warmth radiating off of the lines, much warmer than the rest of Havelock’s skin. Just as when he had touched the carving of the whale Havelock had on his dresser, he felt his hair stand on end, and heard a vague whispering somewhere far in the back of his head. He had the urge to draw his hand back, but left it where it was. The more he looked at the tattoo, the more he felt like he could see the snake slithering under his hand, wrapping around Havelock’s wrist as if it were really alive, threatening to creep onto Martin’s hand if he left it there too long.

“What does it do for you?” Martin asked.

“What do you mean?” Havelock said, his eyes bearing down weight on Martin which he swore he could actually feel.

“I mean, I’ve heard about tattoos like this before. Ink mixed with crushed up runes or whale bones or some such. A lot of you sailors have them and they’re supposed to provide some sort of…boon. Is it true?”

Havelock was quiet, so Martin went on talking.

“It feels strange, like a rune or a bonecharm, or other magical items I’ve had to deal with at the Abbey. Makes my hair stand on end. It _must_ be magic. Is it?”

Havelock let out a deep sigh, an uncertain smile on his face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Oh? Try me.”

“Fine," Havelock said after only a brief hesitation. "You're right. It is _heretical_. It was done with whale-ink on the first ship I went out on, when I was 16. Sort of a, you know, a right of passage. When you helped to bring your first whale in, you got a tattoo. So, of course, I had to have one done. Didn’t think much of it when I got it, thought it was all superstition. But, ever since it healed, it's provided me with a very limited and very vague form of—” He cleared his throat, looking up at the ceiling as if it might help him think. “I suppose you could call it...precognition?”

Martin’s brows knotted, and he glanced up at Havelock’s face, trying to find some hint in his expression that would let him know if this was a yarn or not. “Precognition. _Okay_. Explain.”

Havelock rubbed at his brow with his free hand, smiling awkwardly. “At various points in my life, since getting this tattoo, I’ve, uhh, felt it…react. It gets warm or it starts to hurt. Every time, it always preceded some event that impacted my life.”

“Is that so?” Martin said, sounding a little taken aback. 

Havelock looked mildly embarrassed.

“So, um…” Martin squeezed Havelock’s wrist, feeling the lines of the tattoo practically being seared into his palm as he did so, “Has it ever ‘reacted’ because of me?”

Martin had a very devious look on his face as he asked, his smile catlike, though the voidleaf had left his eyes red and heavy.

Havelock only looked more embarrassed at his line of questioning.

“Well,” he said slowly, trying to avoid Martin’s scheming gaze, “yes. When I, uh, first saw you on the Morgengaard. I felt it, just for a moment. Once you offered to help me deal with the other Overseers, I figured that’s what it meant. But when I saw you at the bar, it happened again, _much_ stronger. It ached so badly it nearly took my breath away.”

Martin lifted his hand off Havelock’s wrist, looking into the serpent’s strange eye.

Havelock was quiet briefly, before saying in a soft voice, “It’s warm right now, in fact. Could you feel it before? I’ve never told anyone about this, so I’ve never known if anyone other than me could, you know, feel it.”

The Captain put his hand over Martin’s, pressing the Overseer’s palm back against the ink.

“It’s warm. I can _feel_ the lines. Honestly, I just thought I was high,” Martin said with a laugh, his emotions swirling at the revelation. 

Whether Martin believed in this precognition stuff or not, it seemed very clear that Havelock did, and that he considered Martin’s presence in his life to be an important matter. He sat there, dumbfounded, hand wrapped around Havelock’s thick wrist. His eyes wandered back up to Havelock’s. 

“So,” Martin said, trying to sound smooth in spite of his reeling mind, “what, uh, important event do you think it’s trying to make you aware of now?”

“I don’t know,” Havelock said, clearly pretending to be clueless, “it could mean so many things.”

“Could it?” Martin said, “any way we can narrow it down?”

“There just might be some things we can try,” Havelock chuckled, his free hand sliding around Martin’s waist, drawing him close. 

Martin craned his neck to kiss Havelock’s mouth, a very strange sensation with the voidleaf and everything else from the last few minutes hanging heavy over his mind. He was sort of half-draped in Havelock’s lap, trying not to put weight on the hip Havelock had been shot in, the scar from which was just barely peeking above the waistband of his pants. 

The liquor and the voidleaf were creating quite the perfect storm. Inhibitions lowered, emotions charged, sensation heightened. Touch felt incredible, and Martin wanted more of it. 

Martin’s hand almost immediately made its way to Havelock’s crotch, stroking the older man through his trousers. 

“This thing is dangerous, you know,” Martin said with a laugh, his fingers working at Havelock’s fly. He wanted to see the damn thing again, to figure out if it really was as obscene as he was remembering it from the night before.

“Is it?” Havelock laughed right back, reaching down to help Martin with his fly. 

“It is. I want you to fuck me,” he leaned back in to kiss Havelock again, “but I won’t lie, I’m concerned for myself.”

“Oh, well, I’ll just have to be gentle with you, if that’s what you want."

Martin scoffed, finally getting the last button undone. 

“Is gentle something you’re capable of,” he asked, reaching into Havelock’s pants to pull his half-hard cock out. It was already enough to contend with as it was, like this.

“It doesn’t come naturally, but I’ll certainly try, for you.”

Martin rolled his eyes, smirking as he started to lazily stroke. “What a line. You really must want to fuck me.”

“Of course I do,” Havelock said with a pleased sigh, “more than once, if I’m lucky, so I’d rather not sour you on the experience. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

Martin’s eyes snapped up to Havelock’s face. The older man was smiling sedately, his own gaze slowly turning back up to meet Martin’s. 

“By the Outsider, I think I’ve never heard a better sentence,” he said in a low voice. “ _Whatever I want_ …”

Havelock chuckled, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the headboard.

Martin pulled Havelock’s trousers and underclothes down with some help. He pulled them down far enough that Havelock could kick them the rest of the way off, letting them fall to the floor. He examined the rather gnarly scar on Havelock’s hip now that he could see the whole thing, and wondered how it had mostly slipped his attention the night before, other than he was already distracted. For some reason, he found himself wanting to touch it, but resisted the urge, for fear of making Havelock self-conscious.

Martin sank down onto his belly, draping himself across Havelock’s lap. Havelock lowered his eyes to slits to watch as Martin repositioned himself. One of his huge hands slid up Martin’s back, coming to rest on one of his shoulders, which he gave a soft squeeze.

Now faced with the prospect of trying to suck Havelock’s cock, Martin wasn’t sure how to approach it. He tried to ignore the fact that he could feel Havelock’s eyes on him, adding to his mild performance anxiety. After stroking Havelock a little longer, he decided to just dive right in and try his damnedest. He ran his tongue up Havelock’s thick shaft, taking the tip into his mouth once he got there. 

By the Void, it was big. He felt like he’d barely be able to take much more than just the tip in his mouth, never mind his ass. The pleasant groan he heard rumbling from Havelock’s chest was good encouragement, though, so he bobbed his head down and took as much in as he could. Now that his drool was starting to slick everything up nicely, he could at least put his hand to work, stroking everything his mouth couldn’t access. 

Martin hummed rather delightedly, running his tongue around Havelock’s full head before going back to sucking, trying to let more and more slide into his mouth. Martin closed his eyes, keeping his ears open for any other wonderful sounds Havelock might make. 

The hand that was stroking slid down lower to fondle Havelock’s large balls, squeezing them, eliciting a soft moan. How in the Void the Captain carried all this heavy gear with him all day, every day, Martin couldn’t comprehend. He went back to stroking the shaft after he had his fill of rolling them around in his hand. 

Havelock’s hand on Martin’s shoulder was steadily sliding up, coming to land on the back of Martin’s head. He didn’t threaten to push down, just let his fingers slide into Martin’s dark hair.

“Ah, Teague,” Havelock sighed, twisting his fingers into the younger man’s hair.

Martin took that as further encouragement, and let Havelock's cock slide in as far as he dared. He was immediately annoyed that his eyes teared up against his will as Havelock’s cock just barely slid down the back of his throat. Martin bobbed his head for a few moments, before pulling back so he could stroke Havelock’s full length (and catch his breath). Havelock’s grip on Martin’s hair tightened slightly, giving him just the slightest tug to make him turn his head up. Martin looked up, a strand of drool running from his lower lip to Havelock’s cock. 

“What is it?” Martin asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then his eyes. “Something wrong?”

“Absolutely not,” Havelock said with a breathless laugh, encouraging Martin to come closer so he could kiss him on his wet lips. 

While they kissed, Havelock worked at undoing Martin’s pants, his hand immediately wrapping around Martin’s cock as soon as it was exposed. Martin laughed into the kiss, helping Havelock to pull his trousers down. 

Havelock leaned his weight into Martin, dragging both of them down into the bed. Once again, Martin found himself on his back, with Havelock looming over him. Havelock reached past Martin to pull a drawer out on the nightstand. Blindly, the man fumbled around until he found a little glass jar of an olive oil-based lubricant. He sat up just a bit so he could open it, and dipped a few fingers in. Havelock smeared some of the lube on Martin’s cock, and used what was left over on himself. He set the jar on the nightstand, leaving the lid off. 

“Now, since I’m doing whatever you want,” Havelock rumbled, slowly stroking Martin with his now-slick hand, “tell me; how do you want to be fucked? On your back? On your knees? Or…?”

Martin gulped, considering his options. Perhaps just staying where he was on his back was the best option. He thought of Havelock looming over him as he fucked him, and looking up into that stern face as it gave way into euphoria. Just considering that cemented the idea in his head.

“My back, this is good,” he said, sounding slightly breathless. 

“Alright,” Havelock said, getting a bit more lube into his hand. He pulled Martin’s hips up onto his lap, and gently encouraged Martin to fold his legs, giving him better access to Martin’s ass. 

Martin took a deep breath, letting his ankles come to rest on Havelock’s shoulders. He shuddered as he felt one of Havelock’s thick fingers run over his asshole, teasing, leaving cool lube behind. The Captain continued like this for a little longer, stroking Martin’s hole before eventually easing one finger in. 

Martin’s back stiffened instinctively. Voidfire, the finger was already quite big enough, he thought, his toes curling slightly as Havelock finger-fucked him, slow and shallow at first, but picking up pace and going deeper with each stroke. 

“Is that good?” Havelock asked, watching Martin’s face. 

Martin placed a hand over his mouth, his eyes closed, face flushed red. He nodded enthusiastically after a pause, encouraging Havelock to continue. After Martin seemed sufficiently prepared for it, Havelock pressed a second finger in.

Martin moaned loudly from behind his hand when the second finger joined the first.

“Still good?” Havelock asked again.

“Very good,” Martin gasped.

Havelock continued fucking Martin with his fingers until he seemed worked up enough to move on. The Overseer squirmed rather pathetically when he finally withdrew. Havelock put his hands on Martin’s thighs, pulling him up his lap until his cock was nestled into the cleft of Martin’s ass. He leaned further forward, folding Martin up a bit as his ankles were still against the Captain’s shoulders.

“Comfortable?” Havelock asked, reaching down to stroke his own cock, making sure it was good and slick. 

Martin laughed, feeling rather giddy with how things were progressing, practically reeling at the thought of Havelock fucking him with that beast. His mind was still heavy and foggy with the voidleaf and liquor, which he was thankful for, honestly. It made being folded up like he was a little more tolerable, and took the edge off his slight anxiety. 

“Perfectly,” he said eventually, “just go slowly, alright? I’ll tell you if I need you to stop.”

Havelock nodded, pressing the head against Martin’s asshole. He stroked Martin’s hole with his cock before very slowly pushing in. Martin sucked in a sharp breath, so Havelock paused, looking down at his face. The Overseer was flushed and already damp with sweat, his hand locking around Havelock’s free arm. 

“Too much?”

“No, no, just give me a moment,” Martin said, cracking his eyes open to look up at Havelock. He was taking orders quite well, which shouldn’t be a surprise, he realized. 

“Alright, go ahead…slowly.” He repeated, squeezing Havelock’s wrist as he started to push in deeper. 

Martin’s back arched, his mind going blank as Havelock’s cock filled him. It was the only thing he could think about. All thoughts other than Havelock were promptly dashed from his mind.

“Outsider’s eyes,” He groaned. 

Havelock went still again, giving Martin some time to adjust before he started to thrust, shallowly, slowly. Martin groaned again, loudly this time. It was very nearly too much, but by the Void, it did feel good. Havelock put a hand on Martin’s thigh, spreading his legs and further folding him up. Martin gasped as Havelock pressed in deeper, giving him only a moment of respite before starting to thrust again.

“There, see,” Havelock said in a low, husky voice, squeezing Martin’s thigh, “I knew you could take it all. How do you feel?”

“Relieved you’re not any bigger,” Martin puffed, finally able to form a coherent thought. He gripped tighter to Havelock’s wrist. 

The Captain just laughed, rocking his hips against Martin. The Overseer was in a daze, his eyes half-closed, so completely distracted by Havelock fucking him that he couldn’t even think about his own agonizingly hard cock. 

“By the Void, you are _tight_ , though,” Havelock said, his voice sounding somewhat strained as he pulled Martin closer, shifting his position slightly. 

He was up on his knees then, pressing Martin into the bed, his ardor obviously getting the best of him as he picked up his pace. The blissful, dazed look on Martin’s face seemed to only encourage him further. 

Remembering himself eventually, Martin’s hand slipped from Havelock’s wrist to address himself. 

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, matching his strokes to Havelock’s thrusts. 

The hand at his mouth drifted down to his chest, fingers eagerly running over one of his nipples. He wouldn’t last much longer and he knew it, not with the voidleaf amplifying every sensation and Havelock so enthusiastically fucking him. Had he not been so overwhelmed with feeling incredible, he might be embarrassed about once again coming so soon.

Havelock’s promise to be gentle seemed to have been somewhat forgotten in the heat of the moment, but Martin found he didn’t mind. He had no interest in reminding Havelock of it now, just barely teetering on the edge. An edge he was very eager to plunge over.

“Havelock, I—” Martin managed to moan out, trying to stroke himself more slowly to prolong the moment, even though it wasn’t any use, “I’m going to—”

It was about all he could say before he came, his ankles crossing behind Havelock’s head, calves squeezing Havelock’s face, which made the Captain laugh breathlessly. 

“Ooh,” Martin shuddered as his cum spilled down his belly and chest, immediately sinking into his thick pelt of body hair. 

Havelock kept right on fucking him, which was very nearly too much now that Martin’s head was swimming with his orgasm, the voidleaf, the booze, the overwhelming warmth of the room, only amplified by Havelock's furnace of a body pressed so close against his. He was bordering now on overstimulation, but he wanted more. He wanted Havelock to come in him, and he wasn’t about to tell him to stop until he did.

Havelock’s voice seemed very distant at first when he spoke next, and it took all of Martin’s flagging focus to understand what he was saying.

“I want to come in you,” Havelock said in a thick, ragged voice, as if he’d read Martin’s mind, “ah, fuck, please-!”

“Do it,” Martin panted, “by the Void, do it!”

With renewed enthusiasm at such eager approval, Havelock fucked Martin hard, his balls slapping against Martin’s skin with every stroke. Martin went back to gripping Havelock’s wrist, each deep thrust drawing a pathetic, shuddering groan from the Overseer’s throat. Havelock cursed, then hitched his hips tight against Martin’s body as he came, deep inside and hard. He continued to fuck him even after he came, less vigorously, breathing heavily. Martin made his own pitiful noises with Havelock so deep inside of him. 

“Outsider’s eyes,” Havelock said this time, slumping over Martin, his hands rather tenderly caressing the Overseer’s slightly shuddering legs.

Yet again, their lack of forethought was coming back to bite them. Nothing to clean up with, not even a towel near the bed. Havelock’s eyes slowly turned toward the footboard, where he’d dropped his shirt earlier. He seemed to hesitate briefly before grabbing it, squeezing it between them and the bedsheets, clearly in hope of catching any cum that might spill out of Martin when Havelock withdrew, which he did, slowly, a moment later. Better than having a mess on the bed, Martin supposed.  
  
“Do you want to get cleaned up? Because I do,” Havelock asked after a long pause, giving Martin’s thighs a little slap, a drowsy but content smile on his sweaty face.

Martin chuckled and nodded in agreement. As much as he would love to just collapse into the bed with Havelock, it really would be much more comfortable if they at least tidied up a little bit beforehand. Martin only felt slightly bad as he used Havelock’s shirt to give himself a cursory wipe down. Stiffly, for having been folded up over himself for the last…however long it had been, he haltingly climbed off the bed. Havelock was right behind him. 

They shared the small bathroom together, a pleasant, exhausted giddiness hanging over them as they cleaned themselves, washing with the satisfyingly cold water from the cistern. Martin yelped when Havelock squeezed the water from an ice cold cloth over his head when he had his back turned. Martin whirled around to punch Havelock in the arm, though he knew it was a pointless exercise. He seemed barely affected, laughing loudly before roughly rubbing Martin’s head with a towel, leaving his hair a wild, damp mess. Martin immediately lifted his hands to smooth it somewhat back into place, feigning irritation but feeling quite the opposite. Havelock really was an oaf. Martin chose to find it endearing.

Feeling refreshed and content, Martin went straight back to the bedroom, the Captain trailing behind him, blowing a lamp out in the hall as he passed it. Havelock threw the covers back once he got to the bed, which Martin was thankful for. It was still uncomfortably warm in the bedroom. They both climbed into bed, and Havelock pulled the thin sheet over both of them, leaving the blanket in disarray at the foot of the bed. 

The music was still drifting up from the street, slightly more off key now than it had been before. It sounded like things were really getting heated just outside the balcony of the flat, with hollering and the occasional sound of shattered glass and fighting. Martin was quite content to be missing it as he rested his head on one of Havelock’s big, muscular shoulders.

“I told you I could be gentle,” Havelock said once they’d settled in, wrapping an arm around Martin’s waist.

Martin scoffed. “If that was gentle, I’m very curious about what rough entails.”

“I can show you that, too, if you’d like,” Havelock said, closing his eyes.  
  
“I think...I’d like that.”


	12. Soft Shackle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's almost done! This chapter was really fun to write so I hope y'all like it.

Fugue Feast had passed all too quickly. It was the morning of the seventh day, and Martin knew what that meant. At midnight the bells would toll, and the world would, regrettably, go back to normal. The length of the Feast varied slightly from year to year, based on cosmological signs observed by the Abbey, but seven days was the standard. There had been no indication this year that the Feast would be extended.

Martin would be back working his dreary but…tolerable job at the Abbey. What was worse, though, was that Havelock was immediately leaving for sea. For three miserable months, at that. That thought alone had plunged Martin’s already flagging mood, and he was finding it very difficult to drag himself from the blankets to meet the final day of the Feast. All he could think of was spending one amazing week with Havelock, only to have him gone for nearly a fourth of the year immediately after.

He found himself alone again in Havelock’s bed, though this time at least he’d had a warning the night before. Havelock needed to go down to the damned boat and run through some things with his crew to assure they could depart as soon as possible. Martin was irritated to lose some of the last few precious hours he had with the man, and that soured his mood even further. As if whatever it was Havelock needed to do couldn’t possibly wait until the next morning. He bitterly supposed that not everything could come to a halt for the Fugue Feast.

Martin sighed and rolled onto Havelock’s side of the bed, his arms curling around Havelock’s pillow as he buried his face in it. Not only was Fugue Feast almost over, not  _ only _ was Havelock immediately leaving, but there was so much still unspoken between them. So much he didn’t dare ask for fear of the answers he might get, for fear of souring their last evening together. Was this just a Fugue Feast tryst, or was there more to it? He certainly  _ felt _ like there was much more to it than that. He also suspected that Havelock felt the same, though Havelock could be inscrutable at the best of times when it came to emotion.

Martin blinked, a thought suddenly cutting through his malaise. He turned his face from the pillow and glanced over at Havelock’s bookshelf, stuffed with journals. He had very nearly forgotten about them, having been rather busy the last few days. He had the perfect chance now, though, and he couldn’t let it go by. Finally, there was a reason to get out of bed instead of moping all morning. Perhaps he could find the answer to his questions there.

Martin jumped up and half-dressed, pulling on his pants from where they hung on the back of the chair, his belt still hanging undone from the loops, before practically stumbling in his rush to go over to Havelock’s desk. 

He had watched Havelock closely enough to know where he squirreled his current journal away when he wasn’t writing in it, and Martin immediately leapt on the chance to dig it out. He  _ did _ feel a twinge of guilt, he always did, and yet it never stopped him. The thrill of, well, prying was just a little more powerful. 

He slid open the long drawer under the top of Havelock’s writing desk, reaching under a handful of loose papers and unrelated notebooks until he found the handsome, leather-bound tome he recognized as his target. He turned it over in his hand to examine the spine, which had the numbers “17/18” inscribed on it. Must have been the last part of 1817 and the start of the new year, though that technically wasn’t until tomorrow.

Ooh hoo hoo, it felt good just to finally hold it in his hands. He ran a hand over the supple, soft leather cover, glancing over his shoulder just briefly. He didn’t expect Havelock back for quite a while, but then, as usual, he had been asleep when the Captain left, so he had no idea how long he had been gone already. 

As much as he would have loved to recline in the comfortable bed and read at his leisure, he knew better than that. He needed to be able to put this journal away as swiftly as possible if Havelock showed up suddenly. So he leaned a hip against the desk and gently pried the book open.

The starting date was immediately interesting. The 18th day of the Month of Hearths, almost two months into their voyage from Wynnedown to Dunwall. He skimmed these pages. It was mostly the serious stuff to do with the looming mutiny, but there were bits here and there about "Teague." He found that quite endearing, remembering that Havelock had exclusively called him “Overseer Martin” to his face for the entire journey. Too professional to go by first names on deck, but apparently close enough for it in writing.

He flipped through the pages, looking for a specific entry. The one from the day they parted after their trip on the Morgengaard. Thanks to Havelock’s meticulous dating, he was able to find it with relative ease. Havelock’s tight, disciplined cursive (rife with misspelling and awkward grammar) was a bit of a strain to read, made worse by how small it was, but Martin squinted and muddled through.

> _ 1817 - 13th day of timber  _
> 
> _ 2238  _
> 
> _ Finally a moment to sit and write. Spent all damn day on the Morgengaard, in spite of pulling into Dunwall harbor at 0600 this morning, I wasnt packing my gear out until well after sundown and I’m exausted and relieved to be home at last. Honestly I’m happy to see the backs of those damned overseers, too, perhaps tucked away in the abbey they wont vex me any further. Doubtful but I can hope. _
> 
> _ I must admit that I will miss Teague, however. I grew quite fond of him. Hes cunning, intelligent, very useful. And, unrelated obviously, but hes quite handsome, too. Quite unfortunate that he may be the most sea sick man I’ve ever had aboard. Had he not been an abbeyman I would have offered him a bonecharm I've known to help new sailors with the same problem. As it was, I just had to watch him hang over the railing morning noon and night, puking his guts up and moaning about the rough seas. _

Martin frowned. It was an accurate description, though he was embarrassed that Havelock had felt the need to record it. He sighed, trying to focus on the fact that Havelock had  _ also  _ included that he would miss him and that he was handsome, and continued reading.

> _ Ah well. It might have just been the stress of the situation getting to me but I felt like there was something between us. I would have preferred to have the chance to get to know him better, but our circumstances didnt seem to allow for it. It really was a shame to say good bye to him, but I made sure to make a point to do so before he left, and to thank him. I have half a mind to ask after him once he’s had some time to settle down at the abbey, but I don’t know. Probably it would be best if I forgot about the whole damned thing. Abbeymen and sailors don’t make good bedfellows, afterall.  _
> 
> _ Still, I feel as if I will be thinking about him for some time. _
> 
> _ FH _

Each entry was signed with a flourish, “FH,” which made Martin laugh. He couldn’t help it, there was something quite charming about it. How unnecessary it was for Havelock to sign each entry in his own private journal, and yet he did. 

Martin flicked through the majority of the following entries, only skimming the words as he rushed to the last few filled pages in the journal, the ones covering Fugue Feast. Those were the ones he was most interested in.

Aha. There. The first night of the Feast, though he’d written it the next morning.

> _ 2nd day of ff _
> 
> _ 1244 _
> 
> _ Didnt get a chance to write last night. Teague, that overseer from the Morgengaard, he tracked me down at the hunters bend. My tattoo started to ache horribly, and when I turned I saw that handsome face again. Could barely believe it. I susspected he put more effort into finding me than he implied at first, and I found out later that he indeed had. Very typical of him I’m beginning to see. Not sure what he sees in me to make all this effort worth it for him but I’m quite content to see where it goes. _
> 
> _ Anyway, we drank the late hours away. It was 0200 or therearound before we left, and we only left because I got into a foolish fight and of course Teague ended up hurt. Not badly, but it did give us a good excuse to leave. _

Martin’s cheeks flushed, thinking back to that night. He touched his chin, which was mostly healed. A smooth scar was all that was left behind.

> _ I brought him back to my flat and took care of him as best I could. He’d been hit in the face with a glass but I think it only glanced him, thankfully. After that, he quite firmly requested that I take some additional care of him, very much confirming my susspicions that there was some tension between us on the Morgengaard. He flat out asked me to suck him off, and who am I to deny such an order? He was embarrassed when we were done because he didnt last long. Personally I found it quite flattering. And funny, though I dare not let him know that. _

Ugh. Well, he knew now. Bastard. Martin paused his reading to light a cigarette, and to try to find a more comfortable position to read in. He slouched into the large chair in front of the desk.  He turned so that his ear was to the door, hoping to catch Havelock's return as soon as possible so that he would have time to hide the journal.

He read through a few more entries about their Fugue Feast debauchery. Havelock was quite the thorough and  _ explicit  _ notekeeper, to Martin’s slight chagrin. He wrote about sharing the bed together that first night. The awkward breakfast the next morning. Smoking voidleaf and having sex (more than once over the next couple days). Eagerly fooling around first thing in the morning (also more than once). Finding a rather secluded area on the waterfront to swim naked together one evening. Spending literally the entire fourth day of the Feast in bed because it was pissing rain and thundering most of the day. They barely left the covers except to eat or share a cigarette on the balcony to enjoy the storm.

Rehashing all the events of the Feast from Havelock's point of view had him feeling quite wistful and more than a little turned on. These six days prior had really been wonderful, for the most part. Perhaps some of the best in his life. Havelock was an infuriatingly strange man, but he was a gracious host, delightful to talk to (especially if he could get him laughing) and quite competent in bed. Martin desperately wanted to ask Havelock what he thought about them continuing to see each other once the Feast ended, but it just didn’t seem right. Havelock was immediately shipping out for a long voyage the second day of the new year. He didn’t want to spoil their last evening together by bringing all of that into it, so he hadn't planned to do so. If Havelock wanted to bring it up, he’d be happy to hear it, but...

Well. Martin took a deep breath, which he blew out as a sigh as he flipped to the last entry in the journal, which was from the evening before. Havelock had been scribbling away at his desk until relatively late into the evening, until Martin had been able to coax him into bed.

> _ 6th day of ff _
> 
> _ 2310 _
> 
> _ Fugue Feast is almost over and I really do find myself dreading it. This is the first time in probably four years that I’ve actually really indulged in the feast, so of course now I find myself wishing I didnt have to go back to my real life come midnite tomorrow. _
> 
> _ There are so many unspoken questions between Teague and I. Ones I am desperate to ask but unprepared for the answers. The second day of the new year, I have to ship out, for 3 months at least. Surprisingly, I find myself dreading returning to sea, as well, a feeling I can’t say I can remember ever having before. I can’t imagine Teague having the patience to wait around for some old dog like myself. He could have anyone he wanted. Certainly at least someone who could spend more than a few months a year with him.  _
> 
> _ And yet, hes here with me. He HAS been here for the entire feast. We’ve gotten on so well, sometimes it feels like we’ve known eachother for years. I’m trying not to look too deeply into it, but perhaps he does feel the same toward me as I do him? Afterall, he could have left at any time if he wanted. Every morning I’ve honestly expected to wake up or return home to see that hes taken off, I don’t know why exactly. I suppose I’m just waiting for him to get fed up with me. _
> 
> _ I just cant see what he sees in me. I could list about a thousand things about him that I find very charming and attractive, even in spite of his damned sea sickness, his smugness, his secrecy. I’ve told him so much about myself, and yet I feel I’ve learned very little about him in return, somehow considering he rarely shuts up. _
> 
> _ I dont even understand why he cares to know so much about me. I often struggle to find things about myself that I like, let alone anything anyone else would. Maybe hes just planning to turn me over to the abbey for heresy afterall. Wouldnt that be a fitting end! And with my typical luck, perhaps its not so far fetched a concern! The outsider knows he’s got enough on me to have my head on the block if he felt like it. _
> 
> _ Speaking of, I try my hardest not to put much stock in my damnable tattoo, either, but sometimes he’ll touch me or say something to me, and its impossible to ignore the ache. I can feel the lines being burnt into my skin like fate itself, in a way Ive never felt before. The more Ive tried to convince myself its supersticious nonsense, the more times its proven to me that it certainly is not. Its like his life and mine were meant to intersect, that’s what the void is telling me. But for what reason? Surely not just a fugue feast fling? For good or ill? I could go on all day trying to figure it out. Its doing my head in. _
> 
> _ Outsiders eyes, this is agonizing. I wont say I'm in love with him, because that would be an extremely foolish thing to think after just six days. However _

There was a big blot of ink on the page after the last word, as if Havelock had left his pen hovering over the paper as he considered his next words. Oh, Martin would kill to know what Havelock originally intended to write after that damned “however,” but instead the next line started with a new thought.

> _ Hes lying on my bed right now, reading some book he pulled off my shelf. Of course he imediately  _ [there was a word crossed out here]  _ hassled me about it being banned by the abbey, but hes gleefully flipping thru the pages of it. He keeps laughing and reading parts out loud to me. I keep looking over at him and thinking, well… well wouldnt it be nice to always look up and see him in my bed, or to see his face across from me while we’re having breakfast, or to share a cigarette with him on the balcony in the evening. I have to ask him tonight. I need to know before I have this hanging over me for the next three months. I’d rather drown than suffer thru that. _
> 
> _ He keeps asking me to put my pen down and come to bed, and I find it quite difficult to deny him. Anything. _
> 
> _ FH _

Martin felt his heart thumping in his chest. There was one more line, written under the last entry. He wasn’t sure when Havelock had scribbled it down, but it was in bold, sloppy, square script, obviously hastily written.

> _ Didn’t talk to him about it last night, either. COWARD. _

Martin puffed at his cigarette, staring at that last line for a long time before going back and reading the entire entry again. So, they were both thinking the same thing and just refusing to discuss it. Maybe Martin had been hasty in accusing Havelock of being the one who was emotionally closed off. He certainly was doing the exact same thing right now. Or perhaps it was just his naturally secretive nature making his life difficult, as Havelock had pointed out. 

It was true, he was wary to discuss himself. Letting Havelock know that he’d lied to get into the Abbey had quietly haunted him since he’d said it days ago. He’d become a new person since he joined the Abbey, an  _ entirely  _ new person, name and large parts of his history included, and he had done quite a good job making sure no one knew it but himself. Yet in one moment with his guard down, he’d told Havelock, a man he barely knew by all accounts, that he was a fraud as an Overseer. And why? Because he was attracted to him? Extremely foolish, and he’d made a point after that to keep facts about himself few and far between, even as he tried to pry more and more from the Captain.

He spread the journal out on his lap and flipped back to the start, deciding to read through the rest of it. As much as reading about himself was satisfying, there was also plenty more about Havelock he’d like to learn from his personal writing.

He rubbed at his chin as he read, which was sporting roughly seven days of beard. In spite of his copious body hair, his facial hair grew in slightly patchy and awkward, so he usually kept it tightly shaved, but Havelock had been letting his facial hair go as well, so Martin simply followed suit. Maybe it was a Fugue Feast tradition.

Martin leaned back in the chair, stubbing his cigarette out in an ashtray on the desk when he noticed it was practically smoked down to nothing. He was so focused on his task that the world faded into silence around him. There was something so satisfying about reading Havelock’s private words. It wasn’t that Havelock was particularly tight-lipped or didn’t talk about himself, but he certainly rarely discussed his  _ feelings _ , and this journal was absolutely packed with them. Martin devoured each page with enthusiasm. 

Such enthusiasm, in fact, that he didn’t hear the door to the flat open. He didn’t realize Havelock had returned until he heard a gruff voice break through his trance.

“What are you doing?”

Martin froze for a split second before snapping the book shut, thoroughly embarrassed and stunned that he had let Havelock get the drop on him. He hadn’t even heard the door open or close, or Havelock’s heavy steps on the thinly carpeted hallway leading to the bedroom.

“Havelock,” Martin said, quickly throwing the journal onto the desk. He stood up, trying desperately to not look sheepish as he turned to face the Captain, who was standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. He didn’t look mad. His face was impassive, inscrutable. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Clearly,” Havelock said stiffly, his eyes wandering past Martin to settle on the journal now on top of his desk.

Martin took a breath. He was good at lying, but it was made much more challenging when one was caught in the act, and he clearly had been. Nothing was coming to his mind. No good excuse. There was no reason for him to have dug that journal out of Havelock’s desk  _ other _ than to read the man’s private thoughts. 

The silence stretched on for so long that Martin began to feel like no one had ever gone this long without saying a word in the history of mankind.

Havelock took a step closer.

_ “What were you doing _ ?” He asked again, the slightest hint of irritation or perhaps embarrassment seeping into his voice, though his face remained unreadable. 

Martin had spent enough time in his life doing unsavory things that he knew one very important thing; If you were caught in the act, it was better to stay silent than to further incriminate yourself by trying to lie about it. He could just confess, but honestly, confession did not come easy to him. He was much happier to hear a confession than to give one himself, a habit probably reinforced by his current career.

They both stood there in chilly silence for a long moment before Havelock sighed, shaking his head. His hands moved from his hips to his belt.

“I see. So it’s an interrogation you want,” Havelock said in a cool voice, unbuckling his belt. He swiftly slipped it from the loops of his pants and pulled it taut between his huge hands.

Martin’s eyes bugged slightly. He knew, he  _ knew,  _ Havelock was very capable of violence. He had seen it. He hoped Havelock was not interested in using violence against  _ him _ , but the sight of him standing there with a belt stretched between his hands was enough to put the fear of it into him.

Martin did, however, know that while he certainly wasn’t capable of taking Havelock in a fight, he was perfectly capable of escaping one. In fact, he was eyeing a couple different routes he could take should this suddenly turn bad. And what a shame that would be after such a wonderful Fugue Feast… Damn his wandering gaze! So much for the lessons he was supposed to be learning in the Abbey.

When he looked back to Havelock, though, he still didn’t see anger on his face. No malice. In fact, he saw the corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a smirk.

“What are you going to do, hit me?” Martin said, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. The famous last words of a man about to be hit, he thought.

Havelock laughed, which didn’t do much to put Martin at ease.

“ _ Please _ , Teague,” Havelock said, “have a little faith in me. A good interrogator knows there are often better ways to get information from someone than through violence. And I’m a  _ good  _ interrogator.”

Well, that was a slight relief, Martin thought, though his eyes still lingered on the belt. He found himself slightly intrigued by what this “interrogation” implied, now that violence  _ appeared _ to be off the table.

“Turn around, please,” Havelock said in a low voice, closing the space between the two of them.

Martin hesitated for only a moment before slowly obeying. He could feel Havelock looming behind him, and sucked in a sharp breath as Havelock grabbed one of his wrists and pulled it behind his back, then did the same with the other. He felt his heart start to thump even harder than it already was when the smooth, well-worn leather of Havelock’s belt slipped around his wrists, neatly binding them together like a soft shackle. Not tight enough to hurt, but definitely tight enough that he couldn’t slip his slender hands free. 

With his usual ease, Havelock grabbed Martin by the waist and dumped him on his back across the bed, much like he had the first night they’d been together. He grabbed the chair from his desk, turning it around so it was facing the side of the bed that the Overseer’s ankles were dangling over. Havelock sat down and immediately reached for Martin’s legs, pulling him closer, until his ass came to rest on the edge of the bed. 

Martin’s legs naturally came to sit on either armrest of Havelock’s chair, effectively making him straddle the Captain’s waist. Havelock sat there between Martin’s legs, looking quite smug. He seemed to suddenly notice the undone belt around Martin’s waist, and reached for it next. That one he wrapped around one of Martin’s legs and the arm of the chair, effectively pinning them together. His other leg dangled free, if only because there was simply nothing to lash it down with, but it didn’t matter much. Martin felt quite effectively trapped regardless.

The nature of this upcoming “interrogation” was rapidly dawning on him. The fear from only a few minutes ago had washed away and left behind only anticipation for whatever torture Havelock was going to impose on him. The erection starting to strain through his pants was evidence of that. He hadn’t ever been tied down like this, but he was suddenly realizing that he  _ liked _ it. In fact, Havelock was only giving him more reasons to not confess anything.

“They teach you this technique in the Navy?” Martin asked in a sarcastic tone, squirming slightly.

“Be quiet,” Havelock said firmly, scooting forward in his chair. He ran his palm roughly over Martin’s crotch. “Already hard, eh?” The Captain murmured, stroking Martin through the fabric of his pants, “That’s a good sign. I have a feeling I’ll be able to break you.”

Martin tried to keep his breath steady, but the phrase, “break you” sent a shiver of delight down his spine. “ _ Break me _ ? What is it that I’m supposed to tell you?”

Havelock continued to stroke, slow and deliberate. 

“Well, clearly, I already know what you were doing. You took that journal out of my desk and you read it, at least some of it. So please,” he squeezed Martin’s cock to emphasize his words, “tell me, how much of it did you read?”

“I barely opened the cover,” Martin lied, his breath hitching, “and even if I had read more, how exactly do you intend to get me to confess anything by getting me off?”

Havelock laughed, a rusty, devious sort of laugh. “Who said  _ anything _ …about getting you off? You have no idea how long I can keep you tied up here, utterly unsatisfied.”

He continued to palm Martin’s erection.

“Then again, I’ll have to be careful. I’ve seen you fire off from a two minute blowjob, afterall.”

Martin felt his face immediately blaze with blush as Havelock brought that back up. It was bad enough that he’d written about it in that damnable journal that started all of this.

“Oh, blow off,” he huffed, squirming, “I already told you that I barely even looked at it, this isn't going to change anything.”

“I don’t believe you,” Havelock said, finally starting to undo Martin’s fly. His cock eagerly sprung free, though Havelock pointedly kept his hands off of it, planting his hands on Martin’s thighs instead.

“It’s the truth,” Martin lied yet again. At first, he hadn’t wanted to confess because it wasn’t in his nature. Now, he didn’t want to because he was desperate to know what exactly Havelock intended to do to him. 

“Very well,” Havelock said, pulling Martin’s trousers down as much as his spread legs and the belt around his thigh would allow, “we’ll see if that’s the same tune you’re singing in a little while.”


	13. Strong in the Elbows, Weak in the Knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's finally finished! Thank you to everyone who stuck around to read this corny stuff. I hope you liked it!

Havelock’s large, rough hands ran up Martin’s thighs, always getting close to his cock, but then slipping away at the last moment. The Captain leaned over him, letting his palms slide up Martin’s bare belly. Martin let out a quivering sigh as Havelock’s hands groped his chest roughly, before he turned his attention to rolling the Overseer’s nipples between his fingers. 

Havelock leaned so close over him that the head of Martin’s cock was just barely touching the loose-hanging fabric of Havelock’s shirt. He couldn’t help but gasp softly at the sensation. He tried to buck his hips up, in hopes of finding more stimulation, perhaps against Havelock’s hard body, but his single bound leg was already making it difficult. When Havelock took a hand back from Martin’s chest and neatly pinned his hip down with it, it became impossible. 

He was immobilized. 

Many times, Martin had thought about how much stronger and larger Havelock was than him. But now, trapped under him, completely at his mercy, he was painfully aware of it. He was relieved that Havelock seemed to be taking his breach of his privacy in stride, rather than with anger. Maybe he’d left that journal out where he knew Martin could easily find it because he hoped for this outcome. Perhaps he’d just been waiting for a good excuse to get Martin tied up. 

He swallowed hard as Havelock continued to use his free hand to stroke his body, hitting every one of his most sensitive spots as if they had been perfectly mapped out, but never straying any closer to his groin. Just the occasional maddening touch of that shirt against his cock. 

Eventually, the Captain sat back, spreading his hands as they both came to rest on Martin’s hips. He stared down at him, Martin’s face flushed all the way up to his ears, his forehead beaded with sweat already. 

“Still not interested in telling the truth?” Havelock said, gently rubbing the crease between his thighs and his groin.

This time it took Martin a little longer to respond. “I already told you the truth. You practically came in the door as soon as I opened the cover. I didn’t read anything.” His voice came out rather raggedly.

“You sure seemed engrossed in your reading for someone who had just turned the cover. You didn’t even hear me come in.”

Martin sucked a breath through his teeth. “If you still think I’m lying then you had better try harder. I’ve been put through worse than this by the Abbey.”

Havelock laughed, “Oh,  _ really _ ? Well, I can’t have that.”

He leaned forward again, this time to take Martin’s straining cock in his mouth. At first, he sucked gently and shallowly, letting his tongue work away at the sensitive underside of the head. 

Martin’s breath caught in his throat, his body twisting as much as he was able, desperate to get more of his cock into Havelock’s mouth. Havelock’s meaty hand pushed down on his hip harder to keep him in place, which wrenched a weak groan from Martin’s throat. 

“Please, just a—just a little more,” Martin whimpered, looking down his body at Havelock, who seemed to be completely ignoring his begging. In fact, Martin’s pleading was enough to make Havelock sit up slightly, his lips just a fraction of an inch from Martin’s cock.

“What makes you think you’re in any position to make demands of me?” Havelock said, his hot breath blowing over Martin’s wet, sensitive skin. The Overseer couldn’t help but squirm at the sensation. “In fact, unless you’re coming clean, I don’t particularly want to hear anything from you.”

Havelock went back to what he was doing, teasing the head of Martin’s cock with his mouth for a painfully long time, before finally taking more. He bobbed his head slowly, nearly taking Martin’s entire length, then almost completely withdrawing, his lips just barely touching the tip. 

Martin could hardly bite back a groan as Havelock did it again, and again, settling into a maddeningly slow rhythm. 

After what felt like an eternity, Havelock picked up the pace. Martin's balls had drawn up as his orgasm neared. Havelock, clearly noticing, gave them a squeeze, then a tug, which made Martin utter a sound he wasn’t sure he’d heard himself make before. 

Martin was so,  _ so _ close, and he couldn’t help but start breathing heavily, pressing his cheek into his shoulder. His stomach muscles twitched visibly in anticipation. His eyes were open to slits, just wide enough to watch Havelock’s expert work. 

Yet just when he knew he was about to come, Havelock stopped, completely, as if he could sense it, too. The Captain wrapped a hand firmly around the base of Martin’s cock, drool running down his chin as he sat back to admire his work.

“Oh, Outsider’s eyes,  _ damn _ you,” Martin hissed, his hips once again desperately, and uselessly, pushing up against Havelock’s firm hand. 

Precum dribbled down Martin’s cock. If the Captain had gone a second longer, he would have come, but instead he was writhing desperately and cursing, as if he could find some way to stimulate himself to finishing regardless.

“You know what you have to do to get what you want,” Havelock said, providing Martin nothing but pressure at the base of his dick. "Not that I'm in a rush. You're quite a striking sight like this."

It took Martin a few moments to catch his breath before he finally groaned out, “Fine, you’re right, you’re right. I did read some. Just a couple pages. From when we were on the Morgengaard together. That’s all. I swear! Now, please!”

“Hm,” Havelock said, very slowly starting to stroke Martin’s cock, “That’s it, really? I find that hard to believe. Perhaps we should keep going, see if you have anything else to confess to.”

Martin whimpered pathetically, twisting in his binds. Havelock palmed him slowly, and with a torturously loose grip. He only tightened his grip briefly each time he stroked the head of Martin’s cock, which made him cry out in frustration each time. 

Every time he felt like he was a stroke away from coming, Havelock would stop, as if he could read Martin’s mind, even as he was desperately trying (but mostly failing) to control his body language. It didn’t seem to matter. Each time, it unraveled him further. Martin’s pleading became more desperate every time Havelock stopped stroking him.

Worst of all, Havelock was right. He could keep him trapped here in agonizing dissatisfaction for ages if he wanted, probably. Already he’d lost track of time, unsure if Havelock had been tormenting him for minutes or hours.

Whenever he stopped, Havelock asked again if Martin had anything else to confess. The Overseer resisted the urge as long as he could, whether because he was enjoying the torture or genuinely just didn’t want to confess, even Martin didn’t know. But finally, as Havelock had predicted, he broke.

“I can’t, I can’t-” Martin gasped, squirming, “I’ll tell you…!”

“I thought you might,” Havelock said coolly, starting up his slow stroking again.

“I read,” Martin panted, his chest heaving, “everything you wrote about Fugue Feast. About me, about us, about how you feel—”

“Mmhm.”

Martin gritted his teeth, devastated that clearly hadn’t been enough information for his interrogator. “You said you didn’t think I’d want to wait for you, you said, “ he gulped, “that you needed to know before you left if...”

“If  _ what _ ?”

“If we would see eachother again after Fugue Feast!”

“Now, was that so difficult?” Havelock said, finally giving Martin what he wanted before he could even admit that he did indeed want to see Havelock again.

Havelock leaned forward with his mouth open, pressing the head of Martin’s cock against his tongue as he stroked him. Martin lasted only moments longer, letting out a strangled cry as he finally came, blowing his load in Havelock’s waiting mouth, relieved when the Captain finally moved the big hand off his thigh so he could buck his hips as much as his bound leg would allow. 

“Oh Voidfire, fuck,” Martin gasped, staring down at Havelock before his head landed heavily back on the bed. 

His heart was pounding, his head swimming. Never had he been put through such a rigorous, torturous routine, but the pay-off was certainly worth it. He hadn't come like that before in his life.

They sat like that for a long time, Martin gasping to catch his breath, Havelock dutifully sucking him dry before wiping his mouth with the collar of his shirt. After a pause, the Captain reached over and freed Martin’s leg from the arm of the chair. Martin grunted when he stretched it. Havelock pushed the chair away and stood up, rolling Martin onto his belly without a word so he could free his arms as well. He couldn’t help but groan again as he slowly moved them, rolling his shoulders, before pushing himself onto his back again with some effort. 

Havelock looked down at Martin smugly, his hands on his hips, his erection painfully obvious in his snug uniform pants. Martin was still struggling to catch his breath and slow his galloping heart, his pants still tangled around his thighs where Havelock had left them. He kicked them the rest of the way off, happy to be rid of them.

“You…you didn’t get your answer to that question, you know,” Martin said after a long pause, once he could finally gulp down enough air to get the words out.

"I know."

"...I'm  _ not  _ planning on turning you over to the Abbey, if that's any consolation."

Havelock laughed, "Oh, good. That's one less thing to worry about."

The Captain sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, next to Martin, whose legs were still dangling over the side. After a moment, he laid back, turning his head to look at Martin, who was already looking at him. Martin thought his face seemed troubled, like he was bracing himself for bad news. He felt baffled, wondering why Havelock seemed to have himself so convinced that Martin was ready to walk out of his life once the Feast was over. How could a man so put together, so successful, so interesting, have such a low opinion of himself? 

Just as the silence was getting intolerable, Havelock broke it.

“I...I think my feelings about you are pretty clear, especially if you read as much of my journal as I suspect you really did. I know, I have to leave for three months right away. I know it’s madness to even ask, but—”

“But what?” Martin asked, as Havelock went awkwardly silent. “You want to know if I’m interested in-” He made a vague gesture with his hand as he tried to think of the right words. “Carrying on what we’ve started, beyond Fugue Feast?”

“Yes. My career, it just...it doesn’t make things like  _ this _ easy. It’s why I’ve avoided  _ this  _ in the past. Nobody wants to be with someone they have to spend half their time waiting for. Not for someone like me.”

Havelock had turned his gaze up to the ceiling at some point while he was talking, still looking pained. Martin turned onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow so he could look down at him. 

“I want to. Maybe I haven’t made myself clear enough over these last few days, but I’ve grown quite fond of you, Havelock. I already know what it’s like to spend three months thinking about you while you weren’t around, and that was before I knew you like I do now. I’ll do it again. I’d be very happy to be there on the dock when the Morgengaard pulls back into Dunwall harbor. If you want me to be, that is.”

Havelock turned to meet Martin’s gaze, his brows still knotted, though he had a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I would like that, very much,” he said, his tone so soft it took Martin by surprise.

Martin smiled, putting a hand on Havelock’s face, his thumb running across the long scar that split his left cheek, a gesture which seemed to finally smooth out the Captain’s troubled brow. He really was quite handsome, Martin thought, in a very strange way. One that he was finding more attractive by the minute. 

After another moment, Martin leaned down and kissed him. Havelock reached up to run a hand through Martin’s hair, his fingers drifting over one of Martin’s ears as he did, which made him shudder slightly. 

Martin broke the kiss, sitting back. Havelock was still fully dressed, boots and all, lying awkwardly across the bed. He chuckled, suddenly very aware that he was stark naked while Havelock was still laced and buttoned up in his uniform, only missing the wool jacket. Well, that and the belt.

“Why don’t you get out of that uniform and get in bed with me?” Martin said, “Unless you have somewhere else you need to be.”

“Mercifully, no,” Havelock said with a snort, sitting up again, reaching down to start working his boots off, “I’m all yours, for whatever little remains of the Feast.” 

Martin crawled into the bed properly, rolling onto his back with a rather content sigh. It was a load off his mind to have the tension cleared from the air. Now the question of what was going to happen next between them wouldn’t have to hang over their last evening together like a dreadful pall. Three months apart was perhaps not the best way to start a relationship, but Martin had always been patient. Something told him the Captain was worth the wait.

Martin watched him undress, quite enjoying the view. Havelock stood up once he’d pulled his boots off, his back turned as he unbuttoned his shirt and set it across the back of his desk chair.

_ What a sight,  _ Martin thought, admiring the wide expanse of Havelock’s shoulders and back, his slim waist, which was just slightly pinched by the snug fit of his uniform pants. His eyes wandered down as Havelock pulled his trousers and drawers off. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the Captain’s woefully flat ass, possibly the only flaw in his otherwise impeccable physique. 

“What?” Havelock said over his shoulder as he folded his pants over his shirt on the chair.

“Nothing. Come to bed.”

Havelock gave Martin a suspicious squint as he turned and crawled into the bed, but pushed it no further. One of his large hands immediately fell on Martin’s hip, urging him on to his side so Havelock could curl up behind him. The Captain’s hard cock did not escape Martin’s notice, especially when it suddenly pressed up against his ass. Martin smirked as Havelock’s hand on his hip pulled him in even closer.

“You know, I think you still owe me an apology for going through my personal things,” he rumbled against Martin’s neck.

“You’re right. What can I do to make it up to you?” Martin said, his voice thick with faux concern, as if he didn’t know exactly what Havelock was about to ask.

“I want to fuck you. Please.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely...”

Havelock only broke from their firm embrace to reach back and grab the lubrication that had been sitting out on the nightstand since they’d needed it on the second night of Fugue Feast. Never seemed to be a reason to put it back again. He opened the lid and got a generous amount on his fingers, stroking his cock with it before running his slick fingers over Martin’s asshole, which was already somewhat wet with drool from Havelock’s sloppy blowjob. 

Spooning in this position, Havelock reached down for Martin’s thigh and lifted it slightly, spreading his legs open. Martin shuddered as Havelock’s sigh ran over his ear as he squeezed his cock into Martin’s hole. Once he started to ease in, he let Martin’s thigh go, gripping his hip instead. Martin gasped as Havelock slowly pushed himself deeper. He’d gotten quite used to the Captain’s size over the Feast, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still a little intense every time they started. Havelock wrapped a leg around one of Martin’s, pulling him closer.

“Do you like this?” Havelock asked, his hands running slowly over Martin’s chest and belly, thoughtfully giving his cock a rest after what he'd already put it through.

“Mhmm,” Martin murmured, wrapping his hand around Havelock’s arm. He could swear that Havelock’s tattoo felt strangely warm, as it had a few nights ago. Curious.

“Ah, good,” Havelock purred into the back of Martin’s neck, kissing him eagerly wherever his lips could land. 

Martin relished the comfortable, intimate position, especially after having been tied down and tormented just minutes ago. Havelock was fucking him slowly, holding Martin in a comfortably tight embrace. There was hardly an inch of space between them, and each kiss Havelock pressed into Martin's shoulder or neck sent a warm tingle over his skin.

“Teague,” Havelock murmured into the back of Martin’s ear, before burying his nose into the Overseer’s thick black hair. 

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” Martin asked cheekily, between breaths.

“Ooh,” Havelocked groaned, using his weight to encourage Martin to roll onto his belly. Martin obliged, and Havelock's slow pace started to pick up as he straddled Martin’s thighs.

“You’re forgiven,” Havelock grunted, grabbing Martin by the shoulder with one hand so he could really lean into him. Martin smothered a loud groan with the crook of his arm as Havelock slid in deeper in this position that he could in the previous one. Havelock always seemed to start off slow and intimate, gentle even, before losing himself to lust. Martin thought it quite exciting to have such an effect on the man, finding the roughness of it exhilarating. He’d never really been with someone rough, and  _ certainly  _ not someone like Havelock.

Havelock’s hand stayed tight on Martin’s waist, lifting his hips off the bed slightly. Martin whimpered, clutching at the bedsheets as Havelock pressed him hard into the bed. He was overstimulated, physically and mentally after their brief respite to talk feelings, but he was riding high on the relief of finally knowing he’d be seeing Havelock again in the future. All he could think about was finding himself here, in this bed, in three months. Havelock would come back from sea all sunburnt on his cheeks and neck, perhaps with his hair a little longer, stepping off that boat in his handsome full uniform, surely with a cigar in his mouth and his free hand on the hilt of his sword. Oof. He let himself get lost in the thought of it, how good it would feel to put his arms around him after not seeing him for so long. It wouldn’t be so bad. He’d have the memory of this Fugue Feast to carry him though the lonely nights in his bunk in the Abbey.

... _ Ugh, his bunk in the Abbey _ . He aggressively pushed that thought aside as he pressed his cheek into one of Havelock’s fine pillows.

He could tell Havelock was already nearly spent with how enthusiastically he was fucking him, and it pulled his thoughts back into the moment. Putting Martin through his elaborate interrogation must have really been a thrill for him, Martin thought, listening to the Captain pant and curse above him. The grip Havelock had on his shoulder and hip was nearly painful, but as with most of his rowdy interactions with the Captain, Martin found himself quite enjoying it, begging for him to come inside him.

Havelock thrust a few more urgent times, before hissing through his teeth and giving Martin what he wanted, dumping his load deep inside. 

He hung over Martin for a few more moments, sinking down onto the Overseer's back, breathing heavily onto his neck. He stayed there while he caught his breath, then slowly rolled onto his back, putting a hand to his sweaty forehead. 

Martin propped himself up on his elbows, breathing hard himself, staring down at Havelock’s flushed face. He admired his ruddy, freckled cheeks. The slight chip on one of his front teeth, which he could just barely see through Havelock’s slightly parted lips. The deep crease between his brows and the kink in his nose that Martin was sure was from it being broken at some point. Long crows feet at the corners of his eyes that made him look older than he was, no doubt from spending his days squinting into the sun and sea. The scar, which pulled on the features of the left side of his face slightly, drawing the corner of his mouth up more on one side than the other. The gray in his coppery-blond hair, and in his beard, which was quite full and impressive considering it had only been growing for seven days. Even the deep scar on his face was beginning to get lost in it. Martin couldn’t help but think about sitting with Havelock and shaving it off for him before he returned to the Morgengaard, running a sharp razor up his throat, his strong jaw, revealing the scar again. The thought made his heart ache, which took him slightly by surprise. 

“You know,” Martin said after the long silence, desperate to say anything to distract him from the strange feeling in his chest, “I might not even meet you at the dock. I might just stay here, waiting in this fantastic bed for you to come back. It’s not like you’ll be needing the place for the next three months, right? You could sublet it to me. I’m a very fine house guest, I think I’ve proven that.”

“Great,” Havelock grunted, finally cracking his eyes to look up at Martin, “I’ll have to bring all my journals with me on the Morgengaard, or I’ll come back to you knowing every embarrassing detail of my life I ever foolishly put in ink.”

Martin put on a faux-shocked expression, “I would never go through your things like that.”

Havelock’s eyes narrowed dangerously, even though he was smiling. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”

Martin put on a coy face, gazing down at Havelock through his dark eyelashes. “You wouldn’t be the first to tell me so, and certainly not the last.”

Havelock laughed. “I don’t doubt it. Now...I’m giving you a pass this time,” he said, his voice suddenly serious even though his face wasn’t, “but if you  _ ever  _ read my journals again, I  _ will  _ toss your ass into the Wrenhaven, you understand?”

Martin snorted. “I promise. I won’t ever let you catch me reading your journals again.”

“That is NOT what I meant, Teague!”

“It sounded that way to me, Farley—”

“And  _ DON’T _ call me Farley!"


End file.
